


The Lion and The Halla

by cynicaldesire



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 103,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicaldesire/pseuds/cynicaldesire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liandra Lavellan, Between Dalish Mage, neither Keeper nor valued member of the clan. She wasn't comfortable around much of anyone, least of all shemlens. But the Commander? He was disarming. He was comfortable.</p><p>It didn't take long for the Inquisitor and the Commander to become friends. She revealed much of herself to him, things that she was afraid to show the Inner Circle. But with his friendship, she was able to open up.</p><p>It was only after the Orlesian Ball at Halamshiral that Liandra finally opened all of herself. (NSFW)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Herald?

Several days had passed since the unsanctioned establishment of the Inquisition. In that time, Cassandra Pentaghast had halted all activities to do with the Breach until her reinforcements arrived. The breach in the Veil had been stabilized, allowing for such a luxury. Due to her contributions, Liandra spent the freedom wandering the mountains in an attempt to escape the crowds. So many shemlens that begged for word from the Maker, or Andraste, or a miracle, or to seal the Breach and save them all.

The trees outside of Haven were dangerous to climb, too thin to support her weight with the snow. She had taken to scrabbling up boulders and perching on top of them instead, shrouded by the leaves. The warmth of the Free Marches provided for better trees, but she took comfort in being off the ground, shrouded by the leaves. Her staff made an impression in the snow beside her. The rock was cold, albeit welcome, while she pulled her coat tighter around her against the wind.

So much had happened since she left her clan to spy on the Conclave. She had just been under orders to observe, to gather information about the Divine, to bring word of the final verdict. She wished she could remember everything that happened, that brought the Breach to Thedas. A tightness filled her chest and closed her throat. All those mages and Templars, dead, while she remained. All those soldiers lost battling the demons while she slept, recovering from whatever magic sparked on her left hand. Whatever marked her hand, using her control over it to contain the evils of the Fade, to stop this madness, to help the shemlens and elvhen and the world, this would be her redemption.

Green magic scorched through her arm, life breathed into it at her very thought. But where had it come from? It felt ancient, older perhaps than even the Creators. Perhaps the shemlens were right, maybe she had been marked by the Maker. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had once held the Urn, a real object, that held the ashes that healed a nobleman from Ferelden. Disbelief in the Maker did not make the evidence of his existence any less real. The Creators were just as real, though the shemlens would never admit to it. The mark calmed as she pondered, allowing her a reprieve. She lifted her knees toward her scarred chin and wrapped her arms around them.

She looked up to the sky. The Gods and Goddesses of both races blessed her, perhaps. The pantheon needed a Herald and maybe she had been chosen. Whatever she had done to deserve it escaped her. A Between Dalish elf for several years before the Keeper permitted her a task. Liandra had proven her disposability, so if the worst should happen, she would not be terribly missed. Or missed at all. Her lips pressed together, dry from the cold. Whatever love she had for her clan faded as her hand sparked again, burned her veins to her shoulder.

“Seems dangerous to be this far from the village walls alone, serah.”

She should've heard him coming. She scooped up her staff and spun around to the voice. She peered over the edge of the boulder, eyes wary.

He wore heavy armor with a large mane of fur around his shoulders. The helmet covered his face, but his accent belied a well-educated Ferelden. A Chantry shemlen, perhaps.

“I can take care of myself, shemlen.” She kept her voice amiable. Chantry shems came in two varieties: Clerics or Templars. Neither option comforted her.

“All the same, I would escort you back to town, miss. If that's agreeable.” His horse shifted his hooves in the snow, the rider shifted with it, unfazed. She furrowed her brow. A Templar then. What had Cassandra called them? Cavalry?

Much like the Hunters of her clan, Liandra grew to fear the Templars. Rarely had the shemlens visited their aravels, but their numbers seemed less after the shems left. They hunted mages from their tower, a world apart from Liandra’s. Sometimes they would pass through after capturing their prey, their quarry in chains, sometimes hooded. The Hunters would make pointed remarks about the treatment of the shem mages, a threat to the clan’s mages that their fate might be similar if they did not adhere to their order.

She stood fully and brushed snow off her backside. “I suppose I've been missing long enough, shemlen.” Concession worked best with the Hunters. No need to start a fight with a well-meaning stranger. She moved to the edge of the rock, and judged the distance.

The feather in his helmet jerked back. “Miss, wait, no!”

Liandra ignored his protests and hopped toward the horse’s flank. She summoned a gust of wind to guide her descent, startling the horse. The horse whinnied, stepping nervously around in the snow. The rider struggled with the reins, the flank jerking Liandra to and fro. A soft voice calmed the beast from the depths of the helmet, metal armor jangling as he stroked the creature’s neck. Confusion settled over Liandra.

“Whoa there, boy, it's all right.” He shushed the large brown beast, patting and stroking its neck. “Just a bit of magic, no harm done.” The horse finally calmed, huffing loudly. The feather brushed against her face as the shemlen looked over his shoulder to her. “Are you all right?”

Liandra started. Not even most elves would ask that, given the situation. “Am I-... Yes, I'm fine.” She looked down to the horse. He had not deserved her impetuous behavior. “I'm... sorry for startling him.”

The rider nodded. “Thank you. It was foolish of you to do.” He squeezed his thighs and the horse started moving, a slow canter toward Haven's front gate. “But at least you recognize it. Apologizing is a good start.”

Her shoulders lifted. She felt undeserving of her vallaslin. He had treated her like a weak woman, a child to be protected, but that did not mean she had to act like one. And the horse, it had done nothing to offend her. The rock of the horse's canter felt more pronounced this far back on his body. She clutched at the back of the saddle, struggling to remain seated.

“Miss, you should hold onto me to keep you steady. The horse can tell you are uneasy.” A smooth voice flowed over his shoulder, no malice or animosity even touched his words. Only worry and fatigue. He must’ve traveled from very far.

“I'm sorry, ser.” Her hands found his sides and she tried to move them up, but found armor under his large coat. A well-armed Chantry shemlen. Definitely a Templar. “Are you here to join the Inquisition's forces?” She slid her hands around toward the front of his abdominal area. She fought the urge to burrow her face into the lump of fur at his back.

The feather bobbed. “I received word that my services would be welcome. What of you, serah?”

She blinked. News of the Herald had to have spread further out than just Haven. “I... have already joined.”

A chuckle rumbled through both of them. The clang of swords reached her ears, initiates practicing at the camp outside the gate. “Not many elves would pledge themselves to a campaign lead by the Chantry. Do you mind if I ask what brought you here?”

She took a breath. He veiled his question in polite conversation, but she understood. Had she been forced to join as a slave of someone else? “My Keeper sent me. She thought it would the best thing for me.” It wasn't a lie.

“So you're a Dalish mage, then?” His curiosity sounded piqued.

She pressed her lips together. The tents on the edge of Haven drew into view. “Yes.” How much should she tell him?

“Do you know if the Dalish clans have chosen a side of the Mage-Templar War? Or if they have chosen a side at all.” The feather in his helmet shifted from side to side. “I... am sure they would not side with the Templars, but what of the Mages?”

A question she had not fielded before. The intent of the Inquisition, formed unsanctioned by any authority, made the question moot. What would it matter?

Though, he had asked specifically after the Dalish. As if the Dalish had a singular authority figure to form an opinion. But her Keeper had said one thing about it. “As long as we are left out of it, you shemlens can kill yourselves however you see fit.”

The horse wandered past the tents on the edge. She could feel the silence building, despite his easy demeanor. Initiates continued their sparring as heled the horse to the stable. Fire burned through her left arm, forcing her to clutch it against her body. Hopefully he had not noticed.

“Apologies, serah, it was not my intent to offend.” The worry and fatigue did nothing to diminish the softness to his voice.

Again, the stark difference in her actions and his reactions forced her to come to terms with the way she acted. He only wished to engage in a friendly, academic dialogue, curious about her or the Dalish opinions on matters. And she reacted rudely. The mark sparked slightly, forcing a growl from her. She flexed her hand, her glove creaking in the cold.

He nudged her gently and she leaned back. He carefully swung his leg over the horse and dropped one foot on the ground. He turned around to stroke the horse’s neck again. Warm and polite and worried had been all this stranger had been. He had done nothing to deserve her actions.

“I'm sorry if I gave that impression.” She offered him an apologetic smile. He offered her a gloved hand. “I'm finding it hard to adjust to being here among so many shemlens.” Her left hand reached for, realizing as he grasped it that the spark had dimmed already. She took his hand and slid carefully off the horse's flank.

She felt herself carried to the ground by his strong arms. Being on the horse, only seeing him from above, had done nothing to educate her to his size. She stood a head shorter, the width of his body blocking her view. She hadn’t met any shemlens near his size. Or strength. Though, she realized, the Seeker had the strength.

The lion helmet nodded to her while his hands left her. Only her, then. He stretched his neck out to unstrap the helmet. The large decorative thing revealed a chiseled jaw peppered with dark stubble, a scar that stretched from his upper lip toward his right eye, and smile lines wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. Eyes of golden hazel under dark, hard eyebrows and golden brown hair. Eyes that had seen demons, touched by the Fade, dark circles pressing in underneath. But he smiled at her, and her hand stopped hurting. Her voice caught in her throat and she felt the demons preying on her.

“Thank you for allowing me to escort you, serah. I would never have forgiven myself if I left you alone out there.” He stood back to hold a hand out to her, a proper, civilized greeting.

The shemlen before her destroyed all ideas she had of Templars, of soldiers, even that of other shemlens. Strength and courtesy, respect and warmth. She looked to his hand. “Yo-You're welcome.” Her hand did not have far to go to find his. He grasped it and she felt a hesitation.

“Ah, Cullen, you made it.” The Seeker approached from the training dummies to their left. “Thank you for coming.”

His features shifted all at once, hard in the presence of the Lady Seeker. Duty before pleasantries. “I appreciate the offer, Seeker Pentaghast. I am grateful for this chance to make a difference.”

The Seeker frowned at the formalities. “Cullen, please, there is no need for that. We should get you set up straight away.” She looked to Liandra. “Ah, but I see you have already met the Herald of Andraste.”

The shemlen started and looked back to the elf. “I-... The Herald...?” Liandra swore she saw a blush to his cheeks and couldn't help but smirk. “I suppose I have, yes.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

The Seeker motioned to Liandra with her armor lined gloves. “Her name is Liandra from Clan Lavellan.” The shemlen straightened up. “Liandra, this is Cullen, a former Templar. I thought he would be the best to serve as Commander of the Inquisition's forces. He has much experience fro-”

Liandra's ears stood up. “Commander of the forces?” She dropped all pretense. “You want this shemlen, a _Templar_ , to serve as Commander?” Cullen stiffened beside her. The mark sparked in her hand, forcing a growl unbidden from her throat. “How can you expect to trust him? Templars are part of the reason this whole war started in the first place!” She felt the demons again, led by her rage, by the Mark.

“Herald-” Both shemlens shouted at once. The Seeker quieted at other's hand.

“Herald, if I may.” Liandra narrowed her eyes, tightening her grip on her staff. “All you have is my word, my oath, that I have no conflict of interest.” He raised his free hand toward the Breach. “My only concern rests with closing the Breach and seeing Thedas protected.” He tilted his head slightly. “Regardless of race or power, the Breach threatens us all. I would see it closed.”

Liandra narrowed her eyes at the taller man. She heard no lie in his words, conviction instead lined his voice. A story rested there that he did not share, the demons behind his eyes stirring slightly at the memories he willed away.

The Seeker tilted her head, the tall shemlen awaited her judgment. While she had been consulted on to clear up a few disagreements, the idea that they desired her approval for one of the leaders of the Inquisition baffled her. She felt the weight of her decision impacting far more than the shemlen’s ego. But, his kindness before and his words now swayed her.

She felt the demons leave her as she calmed. “Fine.” She loosened her grip and stabbed her staff into the snow. “The Seeker seems to trust you, at any rate.” She looked to the Lady Seeker. “And she found the will to trust me.” The Seeker nodded. “Then I will trust you as well.” She held out her hand to him again. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Commander.”


	2. Affirm Your Dedication

Val Royeaux proved to be a waste of time. Liandra had hoped to garner improved relations with the shemlen Chantry, allowing for all manner of benefits according to the former Hands of the Divine, the Inquisition’s new Commander, and Lady Josephine Montilyet. They Mothers feared what the Herald of Andraste would do to their followers, a blasphemer heading up a rebellion shrouded in faith. Liandra had no stake in their religion, only performing a duty she felt important to keeping Thedas safe. If visiting the Chantry to reassure them of her intention would silence their slanderous rhetoric, she welcomed the opportunity.

But before she could meet with any of the Chantry Mothers, Revered Mother Hevara declared the Inquisition heretics and Lord Seeker Lucius broke away from the Chantry, throwing the establishment further into chaos. And shaking Seeker Cassandra’s faith in her order. For if the Lord Seeker did not have faith, how could she?

Their visit did not end in total loss, as Liandra recruited a few more to their cause. All willing to follow her specifically.

She felt the weight of their trust, their faith, in every decision. The Seeker craved a new purpose, believing that purpose to be the Herald of Andraste, the only survivor of the Conclave, touched by the Maker and the Divine. Defected Templars and apostates pledged their allegiance to the Herald and the Inquisition. The weight of the Breach, of the world, rested on her.

Snow crunched underfoot as she climbed another boulder. She stole a moment to escape, a moment away from the minstrel's songs, from the believers, from her advisors demanding her attentions. Liandra spent a great deal of time alone, isolated from her clan by virtue or by force. The environment at Haven, pilgrims and pledges, advisors and those she began to call the Inner Circle, it wore on her. She had to steal her moments to herself here, a few hours shrouded by the branch that hung low over boulders.

The leaves over this particular boulder did little to drown out the sound of so many new initiates training, sword clanging against shield or another sword. Shouts of rage, grunts of exertions, the Commander’s voice peppered in with corrections. She could hardly think, but if she ventured further, panic might set in.

She hopped down off the boulder, a bit of wind to guide her down into the snow. The cacophony echoed off the frozen lake. Brittle wood thunked hollowly under soft footfalls as she made her way to the end of the dock that extended over the ice. The forces had not stretched this far into the valley providing her an escape, however noisy, but she remained close enough to hear the Seeker call.

Liandra dangled her legs over the edge of the dock and rested her staff flat along the structure. Her feet swung absently over the ice. Her eyes lifted to the Breach.

The green scar that tore the Veil. She watched streams of magic stretch all over Thedas and knew Fade Rifts opened at the other end. Fade Rifts that she would have to close. Only she had the power to do so, but she wanted to now. In the beginning, she performed the duty out of obligation, but witnessing the impact her actions had on Thedas, her obligation turned to righteous duty.

Children of her clan were reared on the idea that anyone not Dalish posed a threat. Even alienage elves. Dwarves and humans posed a minimal threat, farmers bartering for Lavellan goods had provided a few good crops. Dwarves offered weapons, but the Lavellan craftsman could do better. The tower mages attempted to use the Lavellan clan as a shield, bringing danger in the form of Templars. The most dangerous threat, humans adorned in shining armor and blind faith. The Lavellan clan held a faith in the Creators and the Keeper, though Liandra always believed it founded. She realized the truth now, that her clan behaved like those Chantry humans, rigid and sterile in their service to an ideal.

But not all humans shambled into the Light like a moth to a flame. Some humans strove to adapt to change, to fight their destiny and make the world their own. Some humans followed their own light, their own path. The leaders of the Inquisition, those that volunteered, all worked to save the races of Thedas. The racial diversity of the Inner Circle had little impact on the devotion of the initiates. And her being an elf had little impact on the leaders of the Inquisition. The Ambassador, Montilyet, had even gone out of her way to learn an Elvish phrase.

 _Lies_. The Keeper hissed in the back of her mind, a chill at the back of her neck. _Lies to gain your trust so they can put you down. They will tear that Mark out of your hand and use it to save themselves. They don't need you, and they will discard you the first chance they get._

Not one of the Council betrayed that inclination. The Commander, though a shemlen and a Templar, did only what he thought benefitted their cause. Sister Leliana as well. Despite her immense distrust of Varrric, the Lady Seeker accepted his expertise. She approved of Solas’s assistance in nursing her back to health and stabilizing the Mark. Accommodations were made for Halla and Bronto in the stables.

Her lips pressed into a hard line, her brow furrowed. The Keeper’s words hissed through the back of her mind, that chill fading down her spine. She wanted to believe her clan pessimistic, but she still heard the occasional slur muttered as she walked by. Knife-ear, hedge mage, apostate, robes, rabbit, heretic. She had heard them all. The prejudices existed, though few and far between, fading as their opinions changed. Her throat tightened. The Dalish would never be that accommodating.

“I thought I saw you out here.”

His voice sent a shiver down her spine. His boots thudded gently along the dock as his horse huffed behind him. She lowered her gaze toward the camp, Cassandra's figure lingering by the rocks that stretched over the lake. She waved to Liandra. Liandra heard the Commander wave back, his armor rattling, leathers creaking.

“I suppose the Herald's work is never done.” She raised a foot to the dock, ready to stand.

“There is still time, Herald. To be honest, I had been hoping for a moment's respite myself.” He moved up beside her and she watched him sink down to sit on the edge of the dock with her. Her brow furrowed. “No harm in relaxing a bit between missions.”

Her eyes followed his descent as he sat down beside her. She fought the urge to tear away. He had been nothing but kind to her, offered soft words and excuses to get away, however safely protected by him or his men. She wrapped her arms around her raised knee, the other foot swinging over the frozen lake.

Her thoughts had been everything but relaxing. “Thank you, Commander... Everything has been moving so fast... I haven't had a lot of time to piece it together.” Her throat closed.

“It is regrettable, but the Breach will not wait for you.” She heard him lean forward, heard his voice come closer. It sent another shiver down her spine, tingles that extended into her mind. “But if there's anything we can do- Perhaps you would like to visit your clan?”

She jerked away from him at the suggestion, startling him. “No!” His brow furrowed, curious. Her reaction had been too strong, however honest. “Ah, no. It's not...” She mushed her lips together. “Just maybe allow me this? Time to relax?”

She watched the hazel fracture, but he nodded to her, lips pressed together. “Of course, Herald. I shall leave you be.”

His knee lifted and she watched him stand. The demons caught her scent, her throat tightening. Her eyes lifted to the Breach, the sound of weapons clanging together. Everything seemed to get louder as he moved further away. “No.” A demon must've taken control of her tongue.

His footsteps halted, the gentle rattle of his armor signaling his turn. “Pardon?”

She felt the heat rise on her ears. She raised a hand, waving him back down. “You can stay, if you like. I should... get to know you better. All of you. If we are to work together.”

She heard his armor rattle, the leathers creak, and glanced in his direction. He shifted to lean against the last surviving post at the end of the dock. “I should be happy to oblige, Herald. What would you like to know?”

Liandra took a deep breath. Butterflies flitted around in her stomach. “I don't know where to start...” The sound of swords and shouts rose to her ears. “How about the state of your troops?”

She heard a soft chuckle beside her. “Fair place to start as any.” She saw him motion toward the camp. “The Inquisition has received a fair number of recruits ever since you stabilized the Breach. Locals from Haven, pilgrims intending to worship at the Temple, others still that were on their way to the Conclave. Many of them have joined our ranks, though few are up to the standards I would like to see them. As I understand, Cassandra has demanded both Solas and Varric assist in training every few days.”

Mirth bubbled from Liandra’s throat. “And they allowed that?”

He smiled down to her. Gooseflesh rose along her right side. “As I understand it, Solas enjoys imparting knowledge, while Varric simply enjoys the audience. I’ve often heard the recruits telling stories rather than practicing their form.”

His confidence settled the fluttering wings in her gut. She had not experienced a natural conversation in decades. “What about you? You said Cassandra recruited you?” Most exchanges between her clansmen resulted in hostilities and arguments.

“Oh, yes. Cassandra and Leliana were the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, as you know. Leliana recruited Josephine to fill in where she could not. Cassandra recruited me out of Kirkwall.”

Liandra stiffened. “Kirkwall?” She knew of Kirkwall. “Varric's from Kirkwall. He told me he knows the mage that blew up the Chantry. That started the War.”

Cullen sighed heavily. “Yes... I had a few run-ins with the mage myself. Though I can't say I knew the man with any degree of familiarity. Cassandra arrived to investigate that incident while I struggled to maintain some semblance of order. It was not easy, but I managed. I guess she saw some kind of potential in me because she offered me a position with the Inquisition shortly before she left to bring Varric to the Conclave. She offered a solution to the war, one better than Meredith had ever even considered.” He paused, and she watched his brow furrow, eyes darken. “Her offer gave me a choice.” The wind rustled his hair. She felt demons swirling around him beyond the Veil. “I had seen the worst of what Templars could do to mages, I saw what the order had become, but... It was still difficult.”

She had considered leaving her clan on a number of occasions. She had not chosen her life, forced into a prison of eyes and arrows that she longed to escape. She may have belonged once, before her power manifested, but afterwards? She became an outcast. The Commander had chosen his life, even enjoyed it. Didn’t he? “Leaving the Templars?”

He nodded. “But I left them to come here. I could see where the Templars were headed and I had hoped I could do something from within, but... I knew I could do more here, outside of them. So I left the Order to join her cause.” He looked down to her. “I have not yet felt regret for my actions. And I pray I never do.”

The timeline made little sense to her. Something about it confused her. “Did you join her to fight the Breach?”

He chuckled. “No. At the time, she had orders from the Divine to begin the Inquisition, something that answered only to her to end the conflict between the Templars and Mages. The Divine believed that corruption had taken the Templars too far in their treatment of the Mages. Leliana tells me that the Divine believed in challenging the way Mages were viewed, to remind the world that mages are still the Maker’s children.” He stiffened slightly. “But you do not believe in the Maker. Apologies-“

Warmth touched her chest. “It’s fine, Commander. I am accustomed to the verbiage by now. Though unsanctioned, the Inquisition is still a religious institution. Many of the shemlens here believe in the Maker or the Maker’s Will. The Temple of Sacred Ashes rests in a crater a few meters in that direction.” She gestured to the Breach.

He laughed. “I suppose you are right, Herald.” His mirth faded quickly, his eyes focused on the Breach. “That crater represents a beginning to something much worse than a war.”

Her hand sparked, fingers tingling, as if invoked by his thoughts. “I just hope that I can control this mark well enough to help.”

He tilted his head down to her. “You worry?” As if the idea that the Herald ever faltered had never occurred to him.

She looked away from his hazel eyes. They bore into her, trying to find the truth. “I... The Breach isn't just a danger to shemlens or the Chantry. The streams of magic stretch over the horizon, and I can feel the Veil tearing. I don't know where they are, but I know what they produce. Wherever they are, people of all races are in danger.”

He arched a brow. “All races?”

An accusation.  “The Breach endangers the world, regardless of what I have been taught to feel about other races.”

He seemed satisfied with her answer. “Which is why the Inquisition is _needed_. The Chantry lost control of Mages and Templars before, but this new threat requires their utmost attention. And rather than turn that attention to the Breach, to aiding refugees and survivors, they argue over a new Divine.” She could hear the petulance rising, a boy angry at his siblings for leaving their chores with him. “But, the Inquisition can act where the Chantry fails. And our followers are a part of that.” He looked down to her, one hand gripping his pommel, the other gesticulating. “There's so much the Inquisition can do, so much that _you_ could accomplish while the Chantry trips over their robes.” He closed his free hand and stiffened. “Ah. Forgive me, I doubt you were looking for a lecture.”

She giggled, a rumble in her throat she had not felt for some time. “Your passion is welcome, Commander, and your candor is refreshing. If you have more prepared, I'd love to hear it.”

The scarred edge of his lips rose as a chuckle escaped him. A warmth spread through her. “Another time perhaps.”

The smile she felt grace her lips, a blush on her cheeks and ears, she worried her vallaslin might drip off her face. He had returned the smile, but the golden hazel of his eyes fractured with cracks and he stuttered a bit. He tore his gaze away first, his eyes shifting to the Breach.

A whistle startled them both. Cassandra waved from her side of the lake. Liandra frowned. “I suppose you're right, Commander.” She released her knee and placed her hands on the dock. He moved closer and extended a hand. She accepted his assistance, pulling herself up in front of him. She felt so small beside him. “Thank you...”

He shrugged and motioned to his horse. “I should thank you, Herald. Listening to my worries when you have so many of your own.”

Liandra blinked. She had all but forgotten her worries as he spoke. “I... This helped, Commander. Knowing how you feel about the Inquisition, how committed you are. And the troops.”

He smiled and helped her onto the front of the horse. He grabbed hold of the saddle and pulled himself up behind her. “I'm glad I could be of service, Herald.” His breath tickled the tip of her ear. She thanked the Creators that he could not see her face.


	3. I'm Okay with Spitfire

“You're going to have to make a decision at some point, Herald.” Leliana frowned delicately. Liandra felt the frustration swelling around her.

The Commander shook his head. “I still believe that the Templars would be the best defense against this Breach.”

Josephine's quill flourished. “Both the Templars and the Mages have reached out to us, but I fear that choosing one will alienate the other. Truly this is a predicament.”

Liandra's shoulders raised, her hands tightening on her staff. Her fingers tingled, a green glow illuminated the map on the table in front of her. Again, they requested her input on something that she had minimal knowledge of. Her presence at this meeting seemed unreasonable. Her purpose in the Inquisition lie with the mark that burned through her left arm. Her duty with her use as a tool to close the rifts and the Breach.

Perhaps someone more suited to the task. “What do you think, Cassandra?”

The Nevarran Seeker shook her head. “I agree with the Commander; the Breach must be contained and the Templars are the best force with which to do so.” Her brow furrowed, jaw set. “And the Lord Seeker has much to answer for.”

Leliana narrowed her eyes, arms stiffening behind her. “The Breach will be sealed by the Herald's mark, which will need more power to overcome the tear in the sky.”

The Commander sighed across the table. Liandra watched his shoulders sag, his hands find the pommel of his sword. “From what Solas has told us, the time for indecision is past, Herald.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “I am afraid we cannot wait much longer.”

Liandra looked to the other three woman gathered. Her breakfast churned in her gut as their eyes bore into her. The fate of the world rested on her, and she felt it. They would not make a move without her. Her staff scratched along the floor, her head dropped. A bit of hair fell in front of her eyes, freed from the tight braids that encircled her head.

The core of this chaos formed around magic. It fueled the tear in the sky, threatened the fabric of reality. Fear of it forced the hands of those that wield it to drastic measures. Relying on magic to repair the Breach would only bring more ruin. If Templars could control that magic, stifle it in some way, that made the most sense. She pressed her lips together.

She lifted her head to scrutiny. She looked around the table, but only the Commander that held a question in his eyes. They left this decision to her. “Josephine, send our regards to Therinfal Redoubt and the nobles that will accompany the Inquisition and ask them to prepare for our arrival. And Commander?” He lifted his chin. “I sincerely hope that your contact can keep himself safe.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Herald.”

Leliana shook her head. “I still believe that the mages will be our best hope.”

Josephine smiled to the redhead. “But this is an opportunity! Perhaps we can assist in brokering a peace between the Templars and Mages.” Her eyes shifted to her clipboard. “Though it will take a great deal of negotiating to do so.” Her silk shoes padded quietly over the stone floor. “Without a Divine, whatever we do will be decried as heretical by whatever is left of the Chantry. An secular, independent community may be their best option.” The door opened. “I will make the necessary arrangements, Herald.”

Cassandra nodded. “And I, too. Varric and Solas will want time to prepare.”

Leliana bowed slightly and headed out of the War Room. Liandra took a cleansing breath, trying to calm the tightness in her throat.

“Herald?” The Commander lingered across the table.

Her eyes lifted to him and she blinked. “Yes, Commander?”

He offered her a gentle smile. “You look like you could use another break.”

He could see through her. It unnerved her. “Thanks, Commander, but I should probably stop by the Blacksmith, check on my staff.” She pulled the object in front of her, grasping it with both hands. A lifeline to keep her grounded, to remind her that the demons couldn't get to her.

He extended a hand toward the door. “I could accompany you. I'll be headed that direction anyway.”

Her previous need to evade him disappeared entirely. No reason to object presented itself. Her left hand tingled. “Sure. Of course.”

A soft smile brightened his features and he moved around the table. Liandra watched him, this shemlen, open the door. He baffled her. She should hate everything about him, he should hate her, but he proved her stereotypes wrong at every turn. She nodded a thanks as she moved through the door. A shemlen that cared nothing for racial differences.

She looked to the door of Haven’s Chantry and strode forward, careful to hold her staff close. The Commander fell into step beside her. Not behind her, as a Hunter might, to watch her, arrow nocked, ready to dispatch her, making her uneasy. He had the opposite effect. She felt safe, protected, even welcome with him.

Whispers from beyond the Veil kept her up at night. They had visited all her life, but after the Conclave, they grew in number and volume. At first, she requested Solas’s assistance with teas or meditation. She had never needed either before, able to quiet the whispers naturally. But even those methods stopped working after a few days. Her meditation became a review of the day, to which she reviewed the things that required her attention, to questions about Varric’s stories or Solas’s academics.

Those things could not help her in her dreams, where the whispers took shape and overpowered her. Cassandra took her place as her shield, a protector that offered a rare smile. But even the Lady Seeker found herself on the ground every so often. She woke in a panic in the middle of the night on several occasions.

Only the Commander had been the most effective at keeping the demons at bay. His ghost offered a shield, a comforting hand on her shoulder, a keen intellect to help her solve their riddles. She had better sleep the nights she summoned him.

She spared a glance in his direction as they reached the door to the Chantry. Their silence held no animosity, no awkwardness. She did not feel obliged to fill it. He pressed a hand to the door and as the door to the Chantry opened, shouts filled her ears. The Commander held his arm out to stop her, protect her. A group of former Templars stood to the left, a wad of robed Mages to the right.

An armored man stepped forward from the left, rage boiling around him. “Your kind killed the Most Holy!” The accusation flung, it did nothing to quench the fire surrounding him.

An older mage, balding, with a ring of white hair around his temples used his staff to step forward. “Lies.” His aura felt colder, calmer, factual. “It was _your kind_ that let her die.”

The Templar growled, his right hand swinging across his chest. Liandra heard the Commander's armor rattle but missed him move to grab the man's elbow. “Enough!” Whatever warmth he held in the War Room disappeared.

“Knight-Captain!” The Templar backed away from the larger Commander.

Liandra narrowed her eyes. The Templar’s aura did not calm. Her staff hummed in her hand.

The Commander looked to the man, those scars behind his eyes lighting up again. His head lowered with his voice. “That is not my title.” She saw the pain roiling around him, the demons vying for control beyond the Veil. He raised a pointed finger to the Templar, a scolding. “We are _not_ Templars any longer.” He turned to the Mages. “We are all part of the Inquisition.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

Liandra's long ears flattened against her braids. Chancellor Roderick emerged from the center of the crowd. Her left arm burned. “Now what would the Chancellor know about this?” The Commander’s head turned slightly.

The Commander shook his head. “Back already, Chancellor?” He shifted his posture. “Haven't you done enough?”

The Chancellor raised a hand, turning to address those gathered as he spoke. “I'm curious, _Commander_ -” Liandra bristled, “as to how your Inquisition and its 'Herald',” the Chancellor motioned to her specifically, “plan to restore the order you promise.”

Chancellor Roderick had antagonized the Leliana and Cassandra before Liandra had woken to her status. He denied the Inquisition, firmly rooted in the Chantry’s hierarchy. They would need a new Divine before they could act. But his flock abandoned him, joined the Inquisition and its Herald. She had heard it all before in her clan. They preferred non-magical means, herbalism, potions, medicine, anything real and founded. They did not want her help and so she ran. She allowed them their prejudices, powerless to change them.

The Commander took a step forward. He always had power. The Chancellor did not scare him. “Of course you are.” He raised his hands, waving the gathered mob apart. “Back to your duties.” A few of the hecklers on the fringes moved away. “Now!” With one command, the shouts quieted down and the mob departed.

Liandra gripped her staff and took a step forward, moving to the Commander's side. She had power now. The Commander acted as her power against the demons in the Fade. He would act as her power against the demons in reality as well.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at the cleric. “Mages and Templars were already at war without _someone_ nurturing that hate into blaming each other for the Divine's death.”

The Chancellor seemed nonplussed at the Commander's harsh tone. He held his hands at his waist. “Which is why we require a **proper** authority to guide the people back to Order.”

Liandra tamped the earth with her staff. She could fight now. “Is that authority meant to be you, Chancellor?”

The Commander's back straightened, strengthened by her presence, her support. “Random clerics who weren't important enough to attend to Conclave?”

The Chancellor's aura flared, eyes narrowing. “And you would have me believe that the Rebel Inquisition and this,” he motioned to Liandra without addressing her, “'Herald of Andraste' is better suited to the task?” He shook his head, hands collecting at the small of his back. “You will never convince me of that, Commander.”

Liandra took another step forward. The Chancellor finally turned his gaze on her, head shifting back at her advance. “The **proper authority** has failed to act thus far, Chancellor. If it were left up to you and the Chantry, the Breach would still be pouring out Demons while you throw more soldiers at them. How many are you willing to sacrifice to feed your own ego, Chancellor?” She took another step forward, forcing the cleric back to step back. “How many lives must it take for the Chantry to lift their robes and take action?”

The Commander's hand found her left shoulder and she froze. Her staff moved between herself and the Chancellor. She gripped it tightly, pouring magic into it rather than the Chancellor. Her left arm cooled, the Mark calm.

The Commander’s voice rumbled through her. “The Inquisition desires only to close the Breach, Chancellor. While the Chantry works to choose a new Divine, we will serve to protect the people of Thedas.” He moved beside her. “I'm sure that Liandra will agree that she has no desire to seek the seat of the Divine. Nor has she ever confirmed the whispers that she is the Herald of Andraste. She has only ever done her part to close the rifts that threaten the people.”

Liandra strained to keep her eyes on the Chancellor while his eyes returned to the Commander. No one outside the Inner Circle had called her by her name, but to hear the Commander say it heated her vallaslin.

The Chancellor stifled a snarl. “You say that now, Commander, but we shall see if that sentiment remains true.”

Nothing she could say would change the shemlen’s mind. Liandra pressed her lips together. “Tell me again why we let him remain here in Haven, Commander?” She had no reason to run. She belonged to the Inquisition. She would make him run instead.

Beside her, the Commander crossed his arms again. Her left arm burned gently. “He's toothless, Herald. No point in turning him away and making him a martyr simply because he runs off at the mouth.”

Liandra's grip relaxed, her staff shifted back to her side. She had no reason to fear this Chantry shem. “Too bad. I wouldn't mind escorting him to the Crossroads and leaving him to the mercy of any Mages and Templars that wander through. The war is not over for them, after all.” She feigned a thoughtful expression. “A shame I worked so hard to close all the rifts in the Hinterlands.”

The Commander's hand found her shoulder again. Her left arm cooled again. “Too true. The events at the Conclave have definitely renewed the violence, with interest. I doubt the Chancellor would relish being in the middle of the Mage-Templar war. Neither side has much love for the Chantry, and with his robes, he'd be an easy target.”

Liandra smirked slightly. She hadn’t had this much fun in ages. She felt empowered by the Commander’s understanding, repelling a threat through mutual banter. “And with neither side knowing who it was that caused the explosion, Mages and Templars both blame the Chantry for calling them together in the first place. Maybe the Chantry was in on the whole thing. A ruse to end the conflict through obliteration.”

The Chancellor's chest puffed out. “This whole matter should be left to a new Divine to sort out. A proper investigation will establish who is innocent.”

The Commander stuck a finger out toward the Chancellor. “Or will be happy to use _someone_ as a scapegoat. And I will not allow that to happen, not to the Herald.”

Liandra looked to the Commander. He defended her willingly.

The Chancellor's hands raised over his hood. “You think nobody cares about the truth? The world grieves for Justinia's loss.”

“But you won't grieve for the Herald when she is swept off to some prison in Val Royeaux. While the rifts continue to spread demons among Thedas and more lives are lost. Just as long as a new Divine warms the Holy Throne and declares Mages or Templars or the Inquisition to blame.” His eyes narrowed and he took a step into the Chancellor's space. “I suggest you return to your tent, Chancellor.”

The older man puffed out his cheeks again. A disgusted growl escaped him, but he backed away. Liandra watched the Commander's mane of fur rise and fall with deep breaths, felt the demons swirling around him. His calm aura had flared at the Chancellor’s threats to her specifically, an emotion he struggled to control.

She moved toward him, unbidden. She sought to comfort him as he did for her. His touch did so much. Perhaps she might do the same for him. His shoulder seemed a world away, causing her to aim for his elbow. The touch caused him to jolt, those hazel eyes fractured with scars turning on her. The hard line of his brow relaxed slightly, his eyes closed.

He took another breath and shook his head. “Sorry about that, Herald.” He motioned to the other path that lead past the tavern, away from the Chancellor’s path. “I had received word he was returning from Val Royeaux, but I did not realize he would go so far as to incite a riot.”

His aura calmed, the demons dissipating. She accepted his new direction, though she tamped the earth angrily as she walked. She longed to hear the story behind those scars. “As much as I trust you and the others, sometimes I wonder if my growing trust of you shemlens is misplaced.”

He sighed quietly, exhausted. “He is a vocal minority, Herald. As I said, he has no real power or authority to affect what we do. There are far more voices, however quiet, that place their faith in you. They know what the Inquisition does is right, whatever's left of the Chantry be forsaken.” He did not voice his objection to the elvhen slur.

His voice had softened again. A different man walked beside her. She glanced up to him, her ears twitching. “Thank you for defending me, by the way.”

His throat cleared. A blush crept to his cheeks. “It's no... Not a problem. He shouldn't be attacking you that way. You've done nothing to deserve it.” A light laugh escaped him. “Though I must say I am glad that it was not me on the receiving end of your ire. I pray that I never am.”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I... have had my fair share of arguments with my clan members, over much the same thing. It's hard to contain forever.”

“Just saw the Chancellor storm off, Spitfire. You and Curly finally put him in his place?” Varric's low rumble called to them from his bonfire.

Liandra started, surprised by the sudden inclusion of the dwarf. She nodded to him. He would be asking about her scuffle while they traveled. “The Commander and I were a bit too much for him to handle, Varric.”

The Commander’s hand found his pommel, the other gesturing to Liandra. “Though I admit I probably wasn't needed. The Herald has lived up to your nickname, Varric. She more than handled him on her own.”

Varric's eyes shifted between the two of them. Liandra swore she saw the cogs turning under his ponytail. “Good on ya, Spitfire. Come tell me about it later?”

Liandra smiled. At least the Hunters helped in in some aspects. “I wouldn't miss it, Varric.” They shared a wave, a promise, and returned to their separate tasks.

Liandra and the Commander made their way down the stairs by Varric. The interruption derailed their conversation. Liandra could scarcely recall what she had said. Instead, she remembered something else. “I couldn't help but notice how upset you were that that shemlen called you Knight-Captain.”

His expression darkened abruptly, the scars fractured behind his eyes again. For a moment she worried he would keep it to himself. “It was my position in Kirkwall when... everything happened.” Her brow furrowed to him. “The Qunari uprising, the Chantry explosion, the Mage rebellion.” His descent slowed. “I was awarded the position for my service in the Circle tower in Ferelden.”

She hesitated to allow him to catch. She hadn’t heard anything about Ferelden. Just stories of the Warden, of the thwarted Blight, and how it smelled of wet dog. She longed to know more. “What happened?”

He stopped at the top of the stairs that led to Haven's gate. “I was there when it was overrun by abominations.”

She looked back to him. She merely felt demons beyond the Veil, but knew that they used the bodies of mages to manifest on this side of the Veil. No mage had ever survived, horribly disfigured by the unbending of reality that the demons required. Circles held any number of mages, and if they all succumbed to demons, she couldn’t even imagine the horrors.

“How many-“

His eyes focused somewhere else. He set his jaw briefly. “I don't like talking about it.”

Or perhaps not. “I understand, Commander. My apologies for dredging up old memories.”

He shook his head. “No harm done, Herald.” His humor did not return. He closed the distance between them and pushed the gate doors open.

Though, he had not actually explained his disgust. “Why would you not enjoy the… position? If you survived-“

“Survive isn’t the word I would use, Herald.” He spoke with finality, a command to drop the discussion.

Liandra flinched. She recognized that tone from the Hunters. But the Commander was no Hunter. He suffered from an affliction, a past trauma she could do not fix, because he would not let her. She wanted to try, to understand what would make this man suffer, and to help in the healing process.

She had to know. Curiosity gnawed at her as they moved through the gate. “Why did you stay with the Templars afterwards, then?”

A weary smile played in his eyes, on his lips. “I believed it to be a calling once, one that I had faith in.” He motioned to the path that passed the initiate’s tents. She furrowed her brow. “You wish to know, do you not?”

She beamed at him despite herself. She might have answers after all. “If you are willing, Commander.” She started down the path and attempted to slide her staff into the frog at her back. The Commander moved behind her and assisted in securing both ends to her back. “Thank you. I haven’t quite gotten used to this thing yet.”

He chuckled and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It was my pleasure, Herald.” One of the initiate’s fell beside them, unbalanced by a poorly executed dodge. The Commander’s demeanor changed immediately.

He took a step forward and yanked the initiate to her feet. He motioned to her sparring partner. “Come here, both of you.” He retrieved the woman’s shield. She slipped her arm into it. “Here, hold it like this.” He adjusted her grip and the position of her arm. “Keep your shield up and let him hit it. If you keep dodging, you could end up on the wrong end of a blade, a spell, or debris.”

She flexed her arm, eyes on the shield. “Like this, Commander?”

He nodded. “Good. Move it into the way of his strike, hide behind it, deflect to open him up.” He gestured to them.

Liandra watched as the pair descended into offensive stances. The Commander took a step back and nodded. The initiate’s circled each other, each attempting a strike but swinging wide. The Commander frowned, but remained still. He practically buzzed with frustration.

A few more swings brought the sword down on the shield, the initiate deflected it and followed with an attack of her own. Her partner flinched, his own shield wide, allowing her plenty of opening. She stopped her blow right before his neck and tapped her weapon against his helmet.

The Commander smiled. “Good, good. Don’t be afraid to hit each other. That’s what the armor is for. Keep practicing.” He turned his attentions to her, the determination in his gaze softening. “Apologies, Herald.”

She shrugged. Dedication, conviction, knowledge. Cassandra chose well with the Commander. “Why apologize? You impress me, Commander.”

He froze, mouth open as if to protest. A blush crept onto his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Herald. Would you like to continue?”

She looked over his training field. Several pairs practiced, swords and shields clanging, words shouted or muttered between veterans and initiates. “If you would prefer to watch over your charges, that is fine.”

Something resembling disappointment drifted over his features. The scars lit behind his eyes, the creaking of leather drifted from his hands.

Liandra lifted her brow. He desired conversation just as much as she. “I do believe that you were telling me why you stayed with the Templars?”

The disappointment faded immediately, replaced by a smile. He turned to the path. “I suppose it has everything to do with why I joined. My village was home to a small Chantry, not normally large enough to house a few Templars, but we had a mage researcher living there. The Templars there seemed noble, a worthy cause for a small boy to join. It was something I could believe in, something real and physical that made a difference.”

Liandra sensed he held something back again. They rounded a boulder and headed for an abandoned dwelling. “I thought all shemlens believed in the Maker?”

His eyes fell, hands finding his pommel. He hesitated. “Most do, yes. I believe in the Maker. And Andraste.” He shook his head slightly. “But the Templars made a difference in the world, in those around me. The Revered Mothers gave us prayers to recite but they did little. I remember begging the Templars to teach me. ‘Let me pick up a blade and shield and show me how to do what you do,’ I said.”

He leaned toward her with a smile. “At first I believe they were just humoring me. A small village with little problems was probably a very boring post for them. They were only there to watch the researcher and he mostly kept to himself. They had no reason not to. Might as well train the lad.” His eyes returned to the dwelling in the distance.

Liandra kicked at a rock on the path. “How old were you?”

He tilted his head and paused, eyes turning skyward. Liandra smiled at the gesture. “I suppose it was around my eighth year. At least, that was when I told my siblings my plan to join the Templars.” His eyes burned again, scorched by unwanted memories. “It took several more years for a visiting Knight-Captain to take notice and offer me a chance at formal training.”

Dedication and purpose at such a young age. Shemlens had to choose at such a young age, limited in their years, unlike her people. Vallaslins did not come for several years, though she found herself burdened with limited choices once she discovered her magical talent. Her parents were none too pleased. They had all but disowned her, only responsible for keeping her fed and taken care of, leaving her with the other mage children most of the day. Liandra spent a great deal of her childhood with other Touched children of similar parentage.

They lingered just outside the abandoned building, both lost in memories. A burning shot up her left arm, a growl emitting from her throat. In the sky, the Breach ripped open another rift somewhere across Thedas.

The Commander jingled slightly as his head whipped in her direction. “Herald?”

She chuckled. This magic in her hand ruined her comfortable, miserable life, what stopped it from ruining her hectic and pleasant one? “I’m fine, Commander. Thank you.”

His brow furrowed, his free hand stretched toward her left arm. Concern etched into his features as she took her gloved hand, watching the green magic spark through the glove. “This mark, does it do this often?”

The burning cooled and sparks faded a bit as he looked her hand over. Liandra stiffened at the contact. Physical contact still surprised her. “Occasionally. It’s fine, Commander.”

His furrow deepened, eyes darting between her face and her hand. “I suppose you are used to magic.” His lips pressed together for a moment. “How long have you been a- Well, how long have you known about your… abilities?”

She sensed the burden of a story again, the presence of demons, though if they were drawn to the mark or him she couldn’t tell. Warmth crackled in her chest as she realized she had no real experience in the telling of her story. So few had asked her about her life before the Conclave, only interested in what happened after, most of which she could not recall. The Commander asked her so many questions, so interested in her and her past and her views on the world.

He gripped her fingers, the furrow of his brow pulling the rest of his brow down. “You have my apologies, Herald. I am acutely aware of how damaging those types of memo-“

Heat pressed against her cheeks, her ears twitching. “Commander, it’s fine. I… I just don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone before.”

Confusion and disbelief knit his brow upward. “No one?” She shook her head, eyes wide as saucers. “As I said, if it is-“

Her right hand lifted to wave his worries away. “No, Commander, you misunderstand – No one has ever asked.”

She watched an array of emotions warp his features, eyes darting between her, Haven, and the ground. He eventually settled on amused disbelief. “I would be more than happy to hear all you have to say, Herald.”


	4. Mourn the Losses

They had been on the road for several days, riding in a bumpy wagon through the mountains of Orlais toward Therinfal. Varric spent his time checking on Bianca or taking notes or needling the Lady Seeker. Cassandra had made a few disgusted sighs and taken to borrowing a horse, just to get away from him. Iron Bull sat with the driver, calling to the complement of guards and flirting with anyone he felt deserved it, occasionally joking with Sera. Vivienne had her own mount, covered in pillows and finery. Which left Liandra alone with Varric, a snoozing Blackwall, and Solas inside the wagon.

"So I couldn't help but notice, Liandra, that you have been spending a great deal of time with the human Commander." Solas's voice was polite, sharp.

She took a breath, the Keeper hissing in her mind. "Not intentionally, Solas. We've had a lot of work to do."

Varric pulled the trigger on Bianca's grip with a pause to assess it. "Fighting with barking clerics, I hear. You were supposed to tell me about that, Spitfire. Did something happen with you and Curly?"

Her cheeks flushed and she sunk lower against the side of the wagon. "We had work to do, troop... things to discuss."

Solas arched a brow. "I suppose with us leaving, you would need to ensure that the Inquisition is functioning well without your guidance." It was an peace offering, something to help her explain it away.

She clutched her staff to her chest. "Ambassador Josephine and Spymaster Leliana were my companions the last few days. The Commander just wanted to brief me as well."

Varric folded the arms on Bianca back. "'The Commander'?" He shared a glance with Solas. "You really need to relax, Spitfire. Sure things are going crazy, but it's okay to call him Cullen."

Her head shook violently. She couldn't. She had to distance herself. He was the Commander of the Inquisition's troops, an advisor to the Herald of Andraste. He was a shemlen. He was a Templar.

"I do find it curious that you would call us and the others by name, and yet you avoid his." Solas laid his staff on the bottom of the wagon. "Is this a Dalish custom I am unfamiliar with?"

Solas was needling her now, like Varric needling the Seeker. "Says the elf that refers to Cassandra as Seeker."

His eyebrows raised. "She has earned her title. I am merely showing respect."

Liandra shrugged her shoulders and leaned forward to rummage in her pack. "Yes, well, I feel the same way about the Commander." She produced her road journal, something that Cassandra and the Commander had requested she start writing in.

Varric tilted his head. "How do you know what he's done to earn it, Spitfire?"

She found the small traveling inkwell and quill. "Cassandra told me." She dipped her quill in the ink.

"Just Cassandra?" Varric smirked over Bianca.

Liandra pressed her lips together and started scratching her quill over the page. A rumble of a chuckle came from Varric's side of the wagon, and she watched Solas cross his arms, a coy smile playing on his lips.

\---

Therinfal had been a disaster. On the road back to Haven, at camp, she had excused herself to write in her road journal and found tears spotting the page. _Does this shape help me know you?_ The Commander had been killed in front of her. But it wasn't real, it was the Fade. It had been trying to rattle her, to understand her. It had shown her things about herself.

 _You just want him to see you, to understand. You want to trust him, but you're afraid._ She could feel the demon's tongue in her ear. _Does he fear you? Does he hate you? He was a Templar, sworn to hunt mages. He is a human, filled with prejudices against the Dalish._ The Envy-Commander had approached her, a gloved hand finding her jawline. _And yet you yearn for it, fight it. How disappointed the Keeper would be._ It was then that she had lashed out. And the Envy-Commander had vanished.

She didn't want to admit to any of it. The Commander was everything she should've hated. She should've stayed as far away from him as possible. And yet she lingered on a snow-covered dock, sharing herself with him, listening to his stories until well after nightfall. He knew more about her than any of her clan.

She scoffed. Her clan. A loosely threaded collection of elves that cling to traditions that are tearing them apart. Solas hadn't been wrong about them, but she wanted to believe he was. She was a Dalish, she should feel some kind of kinship. Not just the pressure of an arrow in her chest when she threatens to leave.

"Pardon me, lethallan. The others-" The flap of her tent was swung open, revealing Solas crouched outside. He paused at the entrance, brow furrowed. "Something troubles you?"

He had startled her from her ponderings. He no doubt sensed the disturbance in her aura. She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. "Ser Barris and the others... I wish we could've done more." It wasn't a lie.

Solas hesitated by the entrance. "We did all that we could, lethallan. With the Envy demon destroyed and the Templars allied with the Inquisition, I don't believe there was anything more you could do to honor his sacrifice."

The bald elf was right, of course. Though that didn't make it hurt any less, or make the nightmare seem any less real. "Thank you, Solas.” She nodded to him and closed the journal. “But you needed to see me?"

He adjusted his crouch and motioned toward the campfire. "There is to be a celebration for our victory and to honor those lost. I thought you might want to join the others."

She caught his phrasing and tilted her head. "Will you not be joining them?"

He chuckled. "Not tonight, lethallan. The Breach still tears the Veil. There is too much work to be done." Her eyes fell back to her journal. "I will tell them you would prefer to be alone." He started to lower the flap.

"Solas?" The flap lifted again. "Would you... like some company?" His brow furrowed. "Some... silent company? I don't..." She was doing it again. Seeking companionship rather than solitude.

He lifted his head, offered her a smile. "Of course, lethallan. Would you like to join me in my tent? I fear all of my materials are in there."

She felt her head nod once and collected her journal and inkwell.

\---

Cassandra had had plenty of words to say on the road back to Haven, and Liandra heard them all. She had hoped that the Seeker would've calmed down from sharing her opinions, but once the War Council was called, she had a new audience. Though her ire seemed directed at the Commander.

"Officers betraying their soldiers, Templars without leaders, demons infiltrating their ranks, a demon imitating the Lord Seeker-" She growled. "We should have taken them to task, not allied with them. The crimes they have committed-"

The Commander lowered his chin, brow furrowed. "Were committed by their officers, with no knowledge or support from the soldiers. Those soldiers will serve the Inquisition, bolster our forces with trained allies. Something the Inquisition is in dire need of. Unless you have forgotten that, Cassandra."

The Envy-Commander tickled her ear. The Commander that stood across the War Table from her was a far cry from the green-eyed bronze demon that had taunted her. The shemlen across the table did not brandish a dagger, was not covered in blood. This Commander looked to her and she felt the demons around her, around him.

"These crimes put the remaining Templars at our mercy, and yet the terms of the alliance you made do not benefit the Inquisition as it should." The Spymaster veiled her anger well, but Liandra could still feel it. "You should have consulted us first, Herald."

Liandra looked down at the map, her grip tightening on her staff. "After fighting a powerful demon both in and out of the Fade, after assisting the leftover forces holding off waves of Red Templars, watching Templars _die_ , torn apart by demons?" Her shoulders lifted. Her Keeper had done the same thing. The hunters accused her. They had never wanted to change their minds. "I'm sorry, Spymaster, I probably should've." Her eyes closed. It was easier to acquiesce. "Perhaps we can still negotiate the terms of our alliance. The Templars left over are still in need of new leaders." She glanced to Josephine. "They will also be needing lyrium, quarters, and the commissary and quartermaster will need to be informed."

Josephine nodded. "Naturally. How long before they arrive and how many should we be expecting?"

Leliana sighed, cleansed of her anger. Liandra could not look to the redhead. "A few dozen veterans are on their way to assist in sealing the Breach."

The Commander looked to Leliana. "How soon until these veterans arrive? Have you received word?"

There was a loud woosh, a gust of air that startled the Herald and her advisors. A young man with a large hat crouched on the war table, holding up a medallion with the Inquisition's symbol. "They are almost here." The hat lowered. "Templars don't like to be late."

She heard Cassandra draw her sword, remove her shield and hold it in front of her. Josephine backed away with a cry, Leliana stood at her corner of the table, unaffected by the sudden appearance of the young man.

"Maker!" The Commander drew his sword, the first time Liandra had seen that happen since his arrival, and moved around the War Table. His left hand lifted in front of her and he placed himself between her and the threat.

The young man's hat turned toward her. "I came with you to help. I... would have told you sooner, but you've been so busy."

Cassandra snarled at the young man. "Commander, call the guards! This creature is not-"

Liandra moved forward, held back by the Commander's strong arm. She remembered the young man's presence from the Fade. "No! It's all right. He's the one that helped us fight the Envy demon." She looked to Cassandra. "Do you not remember him?"

Cassandra's thin brows furrowed. "It was just the four of us against the Envy demon..." But Liandra could sense the uncertainty of her words.

The Commander glanced toward Liandra. "I... There is something different about him. Are you sure you trust him?"

Liandra tilted her head. Templars could sense demons, magics. She thanked the Creators for his past profession, for his understanding. The Envy-Commander and Keeper both hissed as she lifted a hand to the Commander's arm, lowering it slowly. "The Envy demon pulled me into the Fade, tried to unmake me, to _become_ me like it did with the Lord Seeker." The Commander's arm was lowered reluctantly, and Liandra took a step forward, a hand out toward the young man. "Cole kept me myself, kept me safe."

Cole smiled to her and took her hand to hop off the table. "You remembered me." The medallion was in her hand when he pulled his away.

She nodded to him, turning the medallion over in her hand. "Yes, Cole. And I appreciate your help."

Cole's smile brightened. "That is what I want to do. You help people. You make them feel safe, protect them when they should've died." He nodded toward the Commander. "I can _help_."

"How altruistic of you." Cassandra tightened her grip on her sword.

Cole lowered his hat and Liandra could feel the fear, the confusion flowing off of him. "The hole in the sky is too loud for spirits to think. It's pulling, _pushing_ out pain." He looked to the Commander, to Cassandra, to Liandra. "I want to stop it."

The Commander lowered his sword slowly. "You said he helped you at Therinfal?"

Liandra glanced to him. Did he feel it too? "He's the only reason Envy isn't here instead of me."

He sighed heavily. "I can't sanction him having free run of the camp."

Josephine released a held breath. The rattle of her inkwell in her clipboard was the only noise that betrayed her calm voice. "Not freely, perhaps. But it seems a waste to-"

Another expulsion of air from where Cole was standing. The map, no longer held down by the medallion in Liandra's hand, folded over at the corner. Liandra watched the corner be returned flat against the table by an unseen hand.

"Where did he go?" There was fear in Cassandra's tone.

She could feel him, feel the Fade on him. Liandra shifted closer to the Commander to allow the young man passage through the door behind them. The Commander placed a hand on her shoulder, a small gesture to remind her of his location. She felt her heart jump into her throat. "If you're all so worried... Leliana, I would suggest an agent to follow him that can sense the Fade." Leliana nodded to her. "He's not dangerous. Not to us."

Cassandra returned her sword to its sheath, her shield to her back.

The Commander sheathed his weapon as well. "But is he a danger to the Templars? Mages? What is he exactly?"

Liandra shrugged. She had to talk to Solas about it, but she knew he wasn't a demon. "He is a spirit, I think."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "A demon, you mean."

Liandra sighed, trying to remember what Solas had said. "No. A spirit. They are different. Two sides of the same veil, but demons are perverted forms of spirits. Spirits are whole and good, an embodiment of an emotion or idea. Demons are the darker side of that, the spirits that are perverted and consumed by negative emotions and twisted from their original purpose." She held her staff with both hands. "He wants to help and he will do it the way he thinks is best. And if we are gentle, he will remain the way he is." She pressed her lips together. "At least, that's what I think. I will have to confirm with Solas. He knows more about spirits than I do."

Josephine took a deep breath, the rattle of her inkwell quieting somewhat. "Well, I have a lot of preparations to make before the Templars arrival. By your leave, Herald."

Leliana nodded. "I will take your suggestion into consideration. It may be difficult, but I will find someone."

“Ugh.” Cassandra simply growled and headed out the door behind the Ambassador and the Spymaster.

Liandra kept her eyes on the map, turning the medallion over and over in her hand. The Commander had lingered behind, his hand still on her shoulder. She found the weight of his hand comforting, a reminder that she wasn't alone.

The Commander took a breath. "What about you, Herald?"

She looked to his golden hazel eyes. The Envy-Commander flashed in his place, eyes glowing green, toothy grin menacing, and she looked away. "I... You should probably ready the troops, find somewhere for the Templars to fit in. Maybe work their training into the Inquisition's forces." Her brow furrowed. "They may want to do something with our mages, as well. You might need a plan for that."

His brow furrowed, his voice had not softened. "I hadn't considered that. Thank you for reminding me." He tilted his head. "Are you sure you're all right?" The idea of his worry sent hisses down her spine.

She moved to the table and slid the medallion that held the map down onto the table. She felt lighter, further when his hand fell away. “The... Templars that we lost to the demons, to the red lyrium.” She rested her staff on the floor, held loosely in her hand. “Ser Barris... I should be asking if you're all right.”

The Commander took a breath and moved to stand beside her, his hand moving to the medallion. Her fingers had not left it. She swallowed hard and pulled her fingers back just as his brushed hers. His eyes followed the motion to her face. “I knew a few of them. I won't say that it doesn't bother me... But I will endure, Herald. Thank you for your concern.”

She looked up to him, her ears twitching. “If you need someone to talk to, or help in doing something to honor them... I would be glad to help.”

He smiled to her, his hand raising to rub the back of his neck. “Thank you, Herald, but the Templars will take care of themselves.”

“Like the way they did at Therinfal?” The accusation fell out of her lips, the words of the Keeper expelled from her without her consent.

The Commander stiffened at them, eyes shifting down. He took a breath and shook his head. “I will keep an eye on them. As will Cassandra. I will inform you of any... indiscretions.”

Her hand moved halfway between herself and the Commander before she stopped it, closing the fingers. “That was uncalled for, Commander. You have done nothing to deserve that kind of behavior.”

He shook his head, his eyes finding her hand between them. “But I could have, Herald.” He looked away, his gloves finding the pommel of his sword. “Had I stayed in the Order, I could have been one of the Officers that betrayed the Templars. I could've been just like Samson or Denam.”

Her brow furrowed and she pulled her hand back to clutch her staff. The Envy-Commander flashed before her again. He had seen what red lyrium and corruption had done to the Templars. “I highly doubt that, Commander.”

“I appreciate your faith in me, Herald, however undeserved it might be.” His voice had lowered to hushed tones, and she could hear the pain. His hand found the medallion again, adjusting it absently. There were a few demons around his weakening aura.

The Keeper hissed in her ear and she fought against it to guide her hand to his on his pommel. “My faith in you is not placed lightly, Commander.” She felt the words on her tongue, the comforts, the praise she wanted to shower him with. But the Keeper and the Envy-Commander kept them locked behind her lips.

She heard the creak of his gloves, felt the demons preying on both of them. His gloved hand had shifted slightly to take hers. She watched his Maferath's Knot bob in his throat as he swallowed unspoken words. “Thank you, Herald.”

The promise of her name was hidden in her title, an intimacy that made her ears twitch and flatten against her braids, goose pimples rising under her armor. She cleared her throat and removed her hand from his. Distance. "You should get to work." Her eyes focused on the wood of her staff.

He nodded beside her, thankful at the distraction. "By your leave, Herald."

As the Commander left, Liandra could feel Cole's presence outside the door. Her staff balanced between her elbow and the floor as her hands lifted, holding the opposite elbows as she watched the Commander stride through the Chantry.

"The song is loud, quieter when you're near. He fights it, feels the scorch marks, tries to will it away. It's not right. He has to endure. He's been through so much worse." Cole's words were frantic, almost painful to him.

Liandra started, looked toward the presence she felt. "Who?"

"The voice hisses, poisons you against it, but you want it so much. How long will you fight it? How long can you endure?"

Her brow furrowed and she took a step toward him. Cole's presence departed, and Liandra was left alone. The door to the Chantry opened at the Commander's push. He paused to throw a glance in her direction. Her hands tightened into fists at her elbows. He nodded slightly, more to himself, and headed out into the cold.

How long would she fight it?


	5. Man the Trebuchets!

Horns from the watchtowers all sounded in quick succession. Liandra had grabbed her staff and hurried out of her cottage, still in her civilian clothes. The towers erupted in similar reports called down to scouts, messengers. Fires on the mountainside, hundreds of them. An explosion rocked the gate a few feet from her and she felt the fear lodge in her throat.

The Commander was the first to reach her, weapon drawn. "Are you well, Herald?" She nodded numbly. The horns had never sounded before. "Apparently there is a siege on its way. You should get inside and change."

"If someone could be so kind as to open this gate?" A crisp voice called from the opposite side. Familiar.

Liandra shared a glance with the Commander. An enemy would not be so polite. They rushed down to the gate, Liandra making way for other soldiers to push the gate open while the Commander added his strength after sheathing his weapon. Another explosion blinded them for a moment as the gate opened, but as their vision cleared, a mage panted heavily in the center of several bodies. He had taken a knee, one hand clutching his staff to keep him from falling into the snow completely.

"Ah, thank you." The Commander rushed forward as the mage attempted to stand. "I'm here to warn you. Fashionably late, I'm afraid.”

He started to fall but the Commander was there to catch him. “Alone?”

The mage, Liandra noted, was darker skinned, well groomed, with expensive looking clothes. He accepted the Commander's assistance, pushing off of him to stand under his own power. “A mite exhausted, don't mind me.” He nodded. “I bring grave news of the Mage rebellion. They received word of your alliance with the Templars and... made a deal of their own.”

Liandra sighed. She had hoped they could be reasoned with.

“They have allied themselves with the Venatori, a sect of Tevinter mages in service to something called _The Elder One_.” The Commander shared a meaningful glance with Liandra. “They are lead by Grand Enchanter Fiona, but the Venatori are under the command of Calpernia.” The mage pointed toward the mountains. Liandra squinted. Two figures crested a boulder. “And that creature with her, The Elder One.” He turned to her. “They were already marching on Haven when I heard. I risked my life in an effort to get here first.”

Liandra's hand sparked. A scream tore through her, snow soaking into her breeches at her knees. She heard a thump into the snow beside her as her staff dropped with her. She whimpered, doubled over, clutching at her wrist. The Commander and the Mage were on her instantly, their hands on her shoulders. She growled, enduring the pain. But there were flashes, memories that threatened to tear her mind apart.

“Herald!” The Commander's hands pulled her up to see where she had been injured. One of his hands moved to follow the line of hers, holding her right wrist for a moment. “We should find Solas.”

“Commander.” Her voice was a growl. She could scarcely feel anything beyond the pain that flowed through her whole body. “Can we defend ourselves from the...” She looked to the mage.

“Venatori.” He knelt beside her. “That's a pretty nasty mark.”

The Commander moved his arm around Liandra's shoulders. She could feel his aura stretching for her. “Yes, and we should get her to Solas. He has been able to contain it before.”

“Commander, this isn't about me!” She growled as more flashes tore through her mind. She felt the tears sting her eyes. “Can we defend?”

His hands gripped her upper arms, fear in his voice. “Herald... Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this, we have to maintain control of the battle.” He nodded and looked up to the mage. “Thanks to this man, though, we might have a chance.”

“Ah, where are my manners. Dorian Pavus, at your command.” Liandra felt her hand spark again.

“I am afraid I must ask more of you, Dorian.” The Commander pressed her to his side, motioning with his other hand, determined to keep her close, safe, protected. The Keeper hissed, the Envy-Commander cackled, the demons roared. “I will send men with potions to recover your stamina. The trebuchet over there will need a skilled guard to protect against the advance forces.” He nodded to a soldier. “Gather the villagers and civilians and take them to the Chantry. Fortify and watch for advance forces. Man the trebuchets, divide them before they can get to us.”

Dorian lowered his head. “What about the Herald?”

The Commander sighed and turned toward her. She whimpered, the pain paralyzed her, fire in her veins, fracturing behind her eyes. She felt she would be torn apart from the inside, like the Veil, like the Breach. He leaned her back, his other arm stretching below her hips. She whimpered again, his touch almost cooling, and he lifted her in his arms. As if she weighed nothing. “There is another mage. I'll find him. You defend the trebuchets and I'll get you those potions.”

She felt the world turn with him. “Come men, for the Inquisition!” There was a shout among the troops, fervor for the fight to come.

The troops separated to their various tasks, and she moaned in pain as the Commander jogged up the stairs. Every footfall, every movement flared the pain inside her, the magic that clawed under her skin to use her as another rift. Demons roared in her mind.

“It hurts!” Cole's voice from somewhere below her.

“Cole, you like to help. There is a mage at the trebuchets that needs your help. Can you defend him, Cole?” His voice was hard, thick, a force. It swept the troops into their duties.

Liandra recognized Cole's woosh as the young man disappeared from sight.

“Commander!” Solas's voice, finally. She heard the whimper escape her.

“It's destabilized. She's being torn apart.” The harsh Commander was gone, replaced with worry.

“Here, set her down. I know what to do.” She felt the Commander kneel, then snow on her back. “I had feared this when the horns sounded. I had to retrieve this just in case.”

“Whatever it is, Solas, do it.” Her hair was brushed out of her face.

Her ears started to ring, filled with roars and explosions, screams and shouts and horns. Magic flowed around her, inside her, pulling her away, pushing her back, tearing her mind and body. Her eyes burned. How she wished for the snow to cool her, but even it was hot on her back now. Each breath came harder, her nostrils burning, her throat closing.

A gloved hand found her right and the fires burned around it the touch. She whimpered as the pain took her, hoping for an end. Her left hand was lifted, she felt the scrape in her elbow joint. A chant uttered quietly somewhere in the distance, Elven words, a spell. Her hand was covered in a glove, and she felt her throat loosen. A weight was lifted of her chest and she inhaled deeply.

“Solas, she's recovering.” There was relief hidden behind his voice.

“Very good, Commander.” Solas's sarcasm covered his concern.

She whimpered, tears sliding down her temples toward her ears. The pain was fading, lingering cuts under her skin. Everything stung, as if she had been thrown into a salt pit covered in lacerations. She shook her head, her legs squirming, writhing up and down, the motions helping her ignore the pain.

“Will she be ready to fight, or should we move her into the Chantry as well?”

Solas uttered another string of Elven. “She will recover.”

“I will retrieve her staff and armor. Stay with her.”

The gloved hand departed, and with it, the fires returned. She screamed and she heard the armor stop. “Go, Commander, she will be fine. She will need her armor for the upcoming battle.” A rattle of a footstep closer. “I will stay with her.”

She whimpered, trying to roll onto her side. The calming touch was gone, she needed to find it. She needed the pain to stop. Her throat tightened again, her stomach churning. The armor rattled again, grew quieter. No, please, don't.

“Lethallan, please, lie still. Let me work.”

She whimpered. “Solas-” How could he understand. It hurt so much.

He hushed her and uttered another incantation. The pain lessened, and she rested back on the cold ground. Sparks of green issued upwards from her left hand, which she shakily drew into a fist. The fingers resisted, weakened by the magic clawing at her from the inside.

Shouts filled her ears, fighting, the clang of swords, the twang of a bow, the crackle of a fireball. She took quick breaths, trying to calm, trying to find herself among the claws and roars and pain.

But it died. The sound was gone, the grey Haven sky white. She tried to swallow and found her mouth dry. Everything was gone in a flash.

An explosion rocked the ground and she gasped. Her eyesight returned, her ears flattened against her braids. She could feel again, pain gone. Demons roared in the distance, not in her mind. Her eyes found Solas smiling above her. He nodded to her and stood.

“Come, lethallan. We should get to work.”

She blinked and attempted a movement. The salt had been cleansed from under her skin, her body sore, but nothing she had not felt in battle in the field before. She rolled onto her knees and took the hand he offered.

“Herald!” The Commander had returned, clutching her armor and staff. The relief he felt crashed over her in a wave.

She sighed and flexed her left hand. “More or less. How goes the fight? Are the villagers safe?” She raised a hand to her forehead and her fingers came back with blood.

The Commander nodded and held her staff to Solas. The elf took it from him. She grabbed the armor and slid it on over her clothes. “Most of the village has been accounted for, but there are some that we still need to find. I fear in all this chaos, there's not much we can do.”

She confirmed his report and took her staff from Solas. “And the mage that warned us? Has he been accounted for?”

The Commander motioned toward the trebuchet. “He and Cole are buying us more time.” A roar pierced the sky, causing the three gathered to squint in pain. “What in the name of the Maker-”

Massive leathery wings pushed the air down into them. The roar was accompanied by the rush of heat as a fireball flew towards them. Liandra pushed the two men away. The fireball fell between them, over the gate, destroying the trebuchet.

The Commander growled in pain. His head shot up, brow knit in the direction of the trebuchet. “Pavus.”

Liandra lifted a hand. There were more important things to do for the Commander. “I'll see to him. You keep evacuating.”

The Commander nodded. “Are you certain, Herald?” She leveled a defiant stare on him. His jaw set and he hopped to readjust his stance. “At this point, just make them work for it.”

The Commander parted and Liandra looked to Solas. “You would be better suited helping the villagers. I'll see to Pavus.”

He nodded to her. “What about the others?”

She sighed. “I'll bring Pavus to the Chantry and we'll figure out what we can do against _a dragon_ from there.” 

Solas nodded again and turned away.

She found Dorian coughing blood into the snow, hands on his knees. Behind him was the splintered remains of a trebuchet and several wailing soldiers.

“Dorian Pavus?”

He nodded toward the ground. “At your command. But just barely.” He lifted his head. “Ah, Herald, you made it.”

She nodded to him and cast Barrier as she moved closer. “Here, this should help.” He accepted the Regeneration potion with a hearty chug. “Come on, this area is lost. We're retreating to the Chantry.”

The path through Haven was fraught with fire and magic. As they reached the Chantry, soldiers opened the doors to help them inside. Chancellor Roderick fell against the door, blood dripping from his lips. Iron Bull was the first to his side to help the older man to a chair nearby.

“Herald!” The Commander emerged from the wings and jogged toward her. “Our position is not good, as I'm sure you've noticed. That... _dragon_ stole back any ground that Dorian might've earned us with that avalanche.”

A pained grunt escaped Dorian. “You're welcome.”

Liandra couldn't stifle the chuckle.

The Commander glanced toward the mage and shook his head. Worry lined his forehead. “There have been no communications, no demands. The Venatori just keep advancing.”

Dorian crouched beside the Chancellor, Iron Bull called away by his Chargers. “There was no bargaining with the mages, either. This Elder One just takes what it wants. While I was in Redcliffe, it marched all the way here to **take** your Herald.” 

Her brow furrowed. Haven was in danger for her, not for the Inquisition. Her hand sparked and she drew it into a fist. “Then perhaps I should meet him on the field. Maybe it will stop the attack.”

“Herald!” The Commander took a step forward, ready to argue.

“I will not have more people dying because of me!” Her eyes clenched, she felt the demons around her. “There has been enough sacrifice in the name of the Herald. If I can put a stop to it, I will gladly give myself up.”

Dorian stood. “An assassin might take you up on that, but I doubt the Elder One will give a damn.” He sighed. “Such a promising start with the landslide.”

“Landslide...?” The Commander's chin lifted, an idea forming behind his eyes. He looked to Liandra. “Another avalanche is an option. If we can hit the mountain above us-”

Liandra furrowed her brow. Was he really suggesting...? “To hit the enemy, you would bury Haven?”

The Commander shook his head. “This is not survivable now, Herald.” His gloves creaked as he clenched his fists. “The only thing we can do now is choose how spitefully we end this.”

Dorian scoffed. “I didn't race all the way to the Inquisition to have you drop rocks on my head.”

Liandra looked down. The Chantry was filled with weeping villagers, injured soldiers. In the back she could see Solas healing the injured with his magics, Cole trying to comfort, Bull and Blackwall bandaging. Cassandra was giving orders to a few men, Vivienne doing her best to keep her dress unmarred, but also lending what little healing magic she knew to Solas. Sera cowered in a dark corner, squeaking with every roar of the dragon. Varric checked and rechecked Bianca, lifting his eye to follow the wing beat of the dragon.

“What do you suggest we do? Submit?” There was frustration and anger from the Commander. “Let him kill us?”

Dorian shifted away from the Commander. “Dying is typically a last resort, not a first.” He poked the Commander's armor. “For a Templar, you think an awful lot like a Blood mage.”

Liandra heard the growl and put a hand on the Commander's elbow. She felt him relax slightly. “He's not a Templar, and we're not Blood mages.”

“There is a path!” The Chancellor coughed, more blood spattering on his robes. All three turned to him. “You wouldn't know it was there unless... Unless you made the summer pilgrimage.” He coughed again, his hands falling off the chair, dangling at his sides. “The people can use it to escape.” He smiled, his head lolling back. “Andraste must've shown me so that I might tell you.”

She closed the distance between herself and the Chancellor. “Chancellor, be still. I'll get someone over here to heal you.” 

He coughed again, his hands finding her shoulders. “It was whim that I walked the path. In the summer, it was overgrown.” He coughed. “With so many at the Conclave dead, to be the only one that remembers that path.” He whimpered and his head fell again. “If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than a mere accident. _You_ could be more...” 

She shushed him, feeling the tears welling at the edge of her eyes. “Dear Roderick, I thought you wanted to lock me up. And now you offer salvation. I must've grown on you.” The Chancellor tried to chuckle and coughed again. “Commander, is it possible?”

The Commander took a step forward. “If he shows us the path, we should be able to evacuate before you bring the rocks down.” He moved closer. “But what of your escape, Herald?” She felt the terror creeping into his voice, fear for her specifically.

Liandra looked to Roderick. He nodded to her and leaned back against the chair. “Tell the people to pick up what they can carry and get out of here. Dorian, take Roderick, help him show you the path.” She stood.

The Commander turned. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry. We will not die this day!” There was a roar among the troops, blessings muttered by villagers. “Move!”

Dorian took the Chancellor's arm and pulled it over his head. The Chancellor leaned on him, but held a hand out toward her. “Herald, if you are meant for this... If the Inquisition is meant for this... then I will pray for you.” He wheezed and Dorian nudged the old man forward.

Several men ran past her toward the doors of the Chantry. The Commander motioned to them as he got closer. “They will load the trebuchets. All you have to do is keep The Elder One's attention until we are above the tree line at the top of the mountain. A signal flare will be sent up when it is safe.”

Liandra nodded to him. “Thank you, Commander. I won't waste this chance.” She turned around.

“You should take a team with you.” It was an order. One she planned to ignore.

She turned back around to him. “I won't put more in danger than I have to. I can take care of the trebuchet with these soldiers. If I don't make it, having all of them would be better than just a few.”

She heard his leather creak, watched his expression darken. “You'll find a way to survive, Herald.” It was a prayer, a wish.

He turned away and motioned for the stragglers to hurry up. She headed for the door. This could be the last time she saw him. The dragon, the Elder One, the pain. She took a deep breath, the Envy demon's words tickling her ears.

“Cullen!”

He froze, spun on his heel. It was the first time she had used his name. “Herald?”

She smiled weakly to him. “I'll tell you the end of that story when I get out of this.”

He nodded, the promise comforting him. “I'd like that.”

\---

The last turn of the trebuchet had been managed, and that was when the dragon descended upon her. She pulled the apparatus tight only to be caught in the blast of the dragon's breath. A barrel exploded beside the trebuchet, the force tossing her easily several feet away, the speed causing her to roll. The impact sent pain through her torso, her leg. Shouts of Inquisition troops filled the air around her, and she coughed. Probably a broken rib or two, maybe near her lungs.

The ground shook as the dragon stomped around behind her. She recovered her staff and used it to help her stand slowly. Her legs were weak, ankle twisted, her head pounding. The fires burned around her, filling her lungs with ash, making her throat dry. She saw the soldiers recovering, one helping another get to her feet. She tried to call out to them, motioned for them to escape. The only indication she got that they heard was their retreating backs.

“Pretender... You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

The creature emerged from the fires beyond the trebuchet, red lyrium fused his hood to his skull, stretching his skin over his face. His limbs were thin, fingers longer than they should be, sharpened into claws. Red lyrium lined his ribcage, exposed for her to see. She could feel the Veil warp around him, pulled and pushed, unwillingly at his command.

She recognized him, though she couldn't remember why. “What are you? Why do you do this?” She had to know if all this death and destruction had a purpose.

“Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are. What I was.” He took a step forward. “Know me. Know what you have _pretended_ to be.” He held a hand toward her. “Exalt the Elder One. The _will_ that is Corypheus!”

The pain in her hand exploded again, and she fell to her knees. It was bearable this time, for she had other, physical pain to distract her. Her hand gripped her staff tightly, eyes narrowed, focusing her mind on the pain of her broken ribs. “I will not yield to you. I just want to understand!”

The Elder One, Corypheus. She remembered through the pain, a flash of the vision at the Temple of Sacred Ashes crater. This was the creature that had been at the epicenter of the explosion at the Conclave, the thing that had orchestrated all the evils, all the trials and tribulations her and the Inquisition had to endure.

A dark chuckle filled the distance between them. “You do not need to understand. If you gain it by the time I am through, consider yourself Blessed.” He lifted an orb in his other hand, and she felt the magic concentrated on it. “I am here for the Anchor.” Red magic sparked around it. A slice to her mind, a flash of a memory. “The process of removing it from you begins. Now.”

Her left hand sparked, glowed through the glove Solas had given her. She screamed, grabbed her wrist, her staff falling forgotten beside her. “It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning. Instead of dying, you stole its purpose.” He flicked his wrist and her hand lifted against her will. She screamed again, feeling herself pulled toward the creature. “I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as Touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens themselves.” Another flick of his wrist and her hand rose over her head.

The ground was hard on her knees, but the pain was blinding. She heard the dragon roar just over her head.

“And you used the Anchor to undo my work.”

This creature had been the catalyst, the creator of this mark. She could feel a similar, darker power in his orb. He had control of it. “What is this thing meant to do?”

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is None.” He started toward her. She clenched her jaw. “For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

He closed the distance between them and grabbed her wrist. She cried out in pain as he lifted her up by her arm, the weight of her body not meant to be held by her left shoulder. He held her aloft with ease, his eyes level with her, but her boots dangled several feet off the ground. She could feel her shoulder barely remain in the socket as he shook her.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused.” He shook his head. “No more! I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion a withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world.” He shook her, pulled her closer. “You will beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods.” His voice darkened. “ _And it was empty_.”

He reared her back and threw her behind him, at the trebuchet. She cried out, hitting the trebuchet hard. Maybe another broken bone. She rested her back against the trebuchet, lifting her head, trying to push herself back as he took steps toward her. Her vision blurred, watching the fuzzy image of the dragon shifting around to roar at her again, to protect its master. She had a job to do, had to live just long enough for the flare, to drop the mountain on him.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.” Her brow furrowed at his disappointment. Permanent. “So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation – and God – it requires.”

A small orange light arced in the sky behind him. The Inquisition had made it. He had made it. It was time.

“And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You will die.”

She struggled to her feet. The trebuchet release was right beside her. All she had to do was keep him distracted, keep him close. “If I am to die, I will take you with me. This ends here, Corypheus.” Pain exploded from her injured ankle as she kicked the trebuchet release.

The trebuchet launched the rock into the mountainside and a loud impact was heard in the distance. The creature, Corypheus, turned to watch the rock. It was her only chance. She turned around the trebuchet's base and limped as quickly as she could. She had to get away, she had to survive. The Inquisition needed her. She had to tell them. She had made a promise.

A roar echoed from behind her while she ran. There was a break in the fence. She could hear the avalanche fast approaching. She made to jump off the ledge that the trebuchet rested on and landed on a snow drift. Another cry, a shot of pain through her injured leg. She heard a crack from below her, no time to react as the snowdrift fell out from under her.

\---

Her hand sparked, her body ached, her ribs hurt. But she could smell the dank, feel the cold. She was alive at least, that was for certain. She tried to move her limbs and found only pain. Her waist was moist, probably from the potions she kept attached to her hips, though she wouldn't doubt if blood stained her armors.

Standing was difficult, but she managed it only by leaning against the wall. Her ankle was busted, and she didn't even have her staff. Her mark, at least, hurt less. Though it did shine through the glove, illuminating the darkness of the cave in a soft green. It was almost soothing. She had to get back to the Inquisition, to spread the word of the Elder One. Of Corypheus. To make sure that _he_ was okay, alive. She coughed and tasted iron. “Perfect...” She licked her lips, swallowed the blood, and looked around the cave.

The cave she had landed in was straightforward. She followed the tunnel forward, hoping that the demonic presences she felt were just from the Fade and not actually in the tunnels with her. She approached a pair of boulders that all but blocked her forward path and heard the shrill scream of a shade.

She muttered a curse and hid behind the rocks. Shades usually hunted in packs. It would only be a matter of time before the demons noticed a mage present so near to them. She could probably use her spells, but at what cost. What had The Elder One, Corypheus done to her? She had thought to heal herself but refrained out of fear.

Her hand sparked, fingers tingling. Her eyes fell on the mark, the Anchor, and she knew what she had to do.

She held her left hand forward, pushed a bit of her magic into the mark, and focused on a spot in the center of the cave's clearing. She had to position it so that all the demons would be caught in what she planned to do. She took a breath as a stream of green light issued from her palm and she felt the Veil weaken at the spot she focused on.

The demons caught her. The stream of light gave her away. Of course it did. Her breathe hastened, her eyes shifting to watch them turn on her one by one. She had to finish, had to stop them before they tore her apart. She couldn't defend herself. She whimpered and pulled at the Veil, pulling at the weak fabric to create a small hole. The Fade waited on the other side.

Loose hairs tickled her face as the Fade pulled her forward. Her ears flattened against her braids again. The rift was pulling everything in the vicinity in. A one-way trip into the Fade. Her body was so weak, damaged, she could barely fight the pull herself. She braced herself on one of the rocks. The demons shrieked, afraid of returning, unable to resist the pull of the Fade.

All the demons in her path disappeared into the rift she had opened. Their presences felt different than before. The Fade still pulled on her. She raised her hand again and pushed her magic into a thread that stitched the rift as she had so many others before.

Before, she had only ever been able to reopen unstable rifts. The rift at the Temple's crater, the rift in the Fallow Mire. Those rifts had been created by the Breach, by the explosion that destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But she was able to rip open stable areas of the Fade at will, able to tear the Veil open where it was already whole. Her hand sparked. What had Corypheus done to her?

She encountered no other troubles on her way out of the cave. A quick scan around the cave mouth found trees, footprints, and below her rested the rockslide formerly known as Haven. She sighed and tried to calculate which direction the Inquisition would've gone. The footprints and broken wagons were the most likely places to start.

Blood trickled into the snow around her as her feet broke through the soft snow. The blood dripped from her face, off her hand. Though she couldn't be sure that it wasn't the health potions that had shattered, still dripping through the pouches on her waist. If only any of them had made the trip through the snowbank. Every trip her feet took through the snow startled her. It was hard enough to walk with her injured ankle without the snow giving way with every footfall.

Fires had been set up along a path, though most of them were cold by the time she reached them. She did her best to follow the path they made, but there was so much blood, so much pain. Her vision was blurring, her legs weakening. Fear gripped her throat and she coughed. She had swallowed too much blood, her stomach started churning. She tried to swallow more, but that only drew more blood into her stomach.

Her body buckled as the events caught up to her and she fell to her knees in the snowy mountainside. She was so damaged, losing blood. How she had managed to stay upright, to make it this far was a mystery. But she had to make it just a bit further. Her stomach rebelled, her ribs issued pain throughout her body as her stomach forced its contents up. She wretched once, twice, and threw up a foul mixture into the snow.

Her right hand held her up as she emptied more red liquid into the snow, her whole body shivering, almost too weak to straighten up. She panted, eyes watering as more colored the snow under her and she whimpered. Tears dripped down her nose as her stomach finally calmed. She tried to swallow, tasting the foul mixture of bile and blood and ash. Her arms shook, her left clutched against her gut. Every movement of it hurt after Corypheus had tossed her.

She panted heavily, feeling her cool breath hitting the roof of her mouth. She spit into the snow and continued trying to swallow the saliva pooling in her mouth. She lifted her head slowly and raised her right hand to wipe the freezing tears from her face. She had to keep moving. She had to find them. She had made a promise to him.

She made it to her feet and shifted carefully around the pool of sick in the snow and headed for the next fire.

Embers burned in the bowl. She took a deep breath and tripped into the snow. The impact forced a cry from her, ribs penetrating her lungs, her left arm jostled, both exploding pain through her body. She coughed blood into the snow as she tried to push herself up with her right hand only. She growled as her body started to shake again. “Just a bit further, please.” _Creators, if there is anything I ask of you, I ask this now._

She felt a presence move close to her. Not a demon, something else. Her quivering calmed, pain subsided just enough to make standing a possibility. She got to her feet, staggering slightly, and made her way toward the crest of the next hill between two rock walls. She could just barely make out a camp in the distance.

“There! It's her!” The Commander called out to unseen troops and Liandra fell to her knees in the snow. She had made it. He was alive. “Find the Healers. And get Solas!” The voice came closer and she felt hands on her shoulders. “Herald, Maker's breath...”

That presence left her as she heard a whimper escape her. She felt so weak, coughed more blood into the snow. But the Commander caught her, turning her over to pick her up as he had during the attack without hesitation. And she was glad of it. Her body had finally given out, her panic to reach them, warn them giving way to exhaustion and pain. Her breath was harder to come by, as if she were trying to breath underwater. Her lungs had finally been penetrated.

But by the Creators, she had made it. She would be safe now. He was always good about rescuing her. She raised a hand to the stubble covered jawline. “I knew you'd make it.”

His chin lowered toward her, smeared with blood. “Hush, you need to conserve your energy.” He did his best not to jostle her as he carried her quickly toward the camp.

She clenched her jaw, fighting back the hyperventilation. She panted, eyebrows knitting. “Cullen-” He lowered her onto a cot in the Healer's tent.

His gloves took her right hand and he knelt beside her. “Hush, Liandra, you're safe now.”

He said it. He said her name. She smiled and weakly squeezed his hand. “I guess... I should tell you... the end...” And then everything went white.

\---

A muttering pulled her from the Fade, from the white, and back into the world of pain. Her body ached, her torso hurt, her arms burned. Her throat was dry, scratchy. She tried to raise her left hand and met resistance.

“Ah, Herald.” The muttered spell was replaced with Solas's kind voice. “I am glad to see you finally wake.” She heard cloth rustle as he turned. “You, if you could be so kind as the find the Commander? And fetch some water.”

There was an acknowledgment of orders and she heard the rattling of someone in armor jogging off. She furrowed her brow, the motion summoning pain throughout her temples, and groaned. “Solas-” She coughed, the muscles in her abdomen offended at the involuntary action. She took shallow breaths; anything more would've been murder.

“You are still healing, lethallan. The Healers pushed your body to its limits healing the most severe of your injuries. The only thing you can do now is rest and allow your body time to catch up.” The rattle of armor returned, this one familiar to her. “Do you have the water?”

“Here...” The Commander's voice was hushed. “You say she is awake?”

“You wanted to be the first to know, Commander. If you could be so kind as to lift her shoulders?”

A strong hand wound under her shoulders and she was gently lifted to an angle between lying down and sitting upright. She growled at the pain as her ribcage rebelled. A canteen was held to her lips and she raised her right hand to tilt the container so that she could control the flow of liquid into her lips.

The taste of sick lingered on her tongue, tasted awful as she swallowed. Claws marked the descent of the liquid through her throat. But the more she drank, the more was cleansed from her tongue. She drank until she found it hard to breathe and nudged the canteen away. The Commander gently lowered her back down and Solas returned to his incantations.

The Commander's hand shifted from under her, but remained on her shoulder. She heard the canteen slosh as he placed it on the ground beside him, the rattle of his armor as he scooted closer. She swallowed the saliva pooling in her throat and another flash tore through her mind. She groaned.

“The Elder One...” She had to tell them. That was what she had made it here for.

“Don't worry yourself, Herald. We will wait here for you to rest a bit more.” The Commander brushed a few strands of hair from her face.

“No.” Her throat felt better. “It- He has a name.” She opened her eyes to the stubble, to the scar on his lip. Creators she had missed it. “Corypheus.”

Solas stuttered. He took a breath and started the incantation over.

“How do you know this...?” The worry lines wrinkled his forehead.

“He found me at the trebuchet... He tried to take the mark.” She growled as she tried to move her leg. She was so uncomfortable on this cot. Her leg bent at the knee, but her foot did not move. They had splinted her ankle. Her right hand balled into a fist. “He said he has breached the Fade before. To serve the Old Gods in person.” The Commander placed a hand on her knee, lowering her leg back down. Rest, Herald. “He said he found the throne of the gods and it was empty.”

“He found the seat of the Maker?” The Commander adjusted the blanket that covered her, unseated by her movements. “Like the Tevinter Magisters that found the Golden City? It's been thousands of years. Is that even possible?”

She swallowed hard, fighting the sore throat. “He said he wanted to restore the Tevinter of old. He had a ball, an orb with ripples from the top to the bottom. It was the source of his strange power. He used it to try take the mark. He called my mark The Anchor. But it didn't work.” She growled again. “Creators, this hurts.”

The Commander took a breath. “I know, Herald. The Healers cannot put your body through any more forced healing, they said. I'm sorry.”

She rolled her head on the cot's flat pillow. It was a wonder she had made it out alive, that she was able to be healed at all. The groans of other patients drifted to her. Were any of the soldiers that loaded the trebuchet among them? “Thank you... How many made it out?”

The Commander looked to Solas. She could tell the answer did not satisfy him. “Enough. There are always casualties, but the fact that any survived at all...” Was a small comfort, she knew. He never wanted to voice those opinions, to give them form.

She nodded slightly and closed her eyes. “I'm sorry...” She had told someone what she had learned. She was so tired.

“I believe she should return to her rest, Commander. I have completed my work on the mark. The rest is up to her.” Solas patted her hand as he stood.

“I should tell the others the information she gathered.” There was a shuffle as Solas moved away. “Perhaps Dorian will know something about this Corypheus.” The Commander's hand did not leave her.

\---

Liandra felt like death. She did not relish listening to her advisors arguing, did not bask in the horror of the Inquisition's forces being so divided in these frozen mountains. Mother Giselle sat as her vigil, talked with her about what the state of the Inquisition, of the information they had gathered, but the cleric did not fight her when she swung her feet over the edge of the cot and stumbled towards the camp's proper.   


Her ankle splint was tight, and she wished she had her staff, or at least a walking stick, to help her. She had lost her staff somewhere under Haven. Her left arm was in a sling, presumably put there at some point while she slept. There were still bruises on her face, shrouded by the hair that had come undone from her ubiquitous braids. She limped to one of the tent supports and leaned on it, carefully.

Leliana looked all the world like a small girl, lost and alone, shivering by the fire, her arms wrapped around her knees. Josephine sat on a bench beside her, eyes locked on the cold ground. Cassandra had busied herself trying to find their location on the map. Commander Cullen stood off to the side, hands rising and falling in an angry tirade he presumably muttered in his head. Liandra took a step forward, toward the Commander. For all their shouting, his was the only voice that had made any sense.   
  
But Mother Giselle emerged from the tent with a song, a song that rose through the ranks of the campsite, that brought many from their tents to kneel in front of her. The sight of so many shemlens kneeling surprised her. She wasn't sure what the song was or why the survivors knelt, but she recognized the reverence in their faces. She had done nothing to deserve it. She did her best to remain gracious. 

So many people continually placed their faith in her for things that could be explained. She had survived, not been rescued from beyond the Fade. She had lived because she had managed to not die, that was what made her special. But so had Dorian, so had the Commander, Cassandra, Leliana. There were soldiers lying in the healers' tents that did the same. And yet she was the one that stood at the War Table, that the Inquisition looked to for guidance.   
  
"An army needs more than an enemy, it needs a _cause_ ." Mother Giselle parted from her, wandering back into the healers' tent to check on the other patients.   
  
"If I might bend your ear." Solas approached as the kneeling shemlens parted.   
  
Liandra's eyes locked with the Commander's for a moment. She watched his eyes light up, then follow Solas as the elf made his way out of the camp. She swallowed against her sore throat and limped her way after Solas. "Of course, Solas."   
  
He made his way slowly for her, led her to the highest point beside the campsite and stopped by a torch that was left unlit. A wave of his hand conjured a new flame in the embers and he turned to her. "The humans have not raised one of our kind so high for ages beyond counting. Her faith is hard-won, lethallan, worthy of pride, save one detail." Her brow furrowed and she moved closer to the torch. "The threat Corypheus wields, the orb he carries. It is ours."   
  
Liandra's brows shot up. "Ours?"   
  
He nodded. "He must've used it in an attempt to travel through the Fade. His poor control of it, instead, caused the Breach, and most likely the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how he survived and..." He turned toward her, one hand motioning to the camp. "We must prepare for their reaction, when they find out it is of Elven origin."   
  
Liandra furrowed her brow. The elf had rarely admitted their racial similarities, despite her attempts to be polite. But something bothered her. "How do you know this? One of your walks in the Fade?"   
  
Solas chuckled at her curiosity and playfully mocking tone, allowing himself a small nod. "Such things were foci, said to channel the power of our Gods. Some were dedicated to a specific member of our pantheon. All that remains are references in the ruins I have dreamt in, visions of memories in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire." He looked back to the fire. "However Corypheus came to own it, the orb is Elven in origin. By wielding it, he threatens the heart of human faith."   
  
She frowned a bit. He had a point, but she did not want to believe it. "I doubt they will lump us in with the power Corypheus wields, Solas. He is a monster. And I have not seen or heard him using Elves in any of his attacks. He speaks for Tevinter." She turned to him, saw the frown lines, the sag of his ears. "I'm sorry, Solas. I understand your fears, but with everything that has happened... I doubt these people are so simple as to link the two without some kind of proof.” He looked away. “You said so yourself, they have placed their faith in me, regardless of my attempts to quell it. They will believe what they want and ignore the information however they want." He shook his head. "Like Cassandra, they will value our efforts to help far more than the rumors that we caused it."   
  
"So you say, lethallan. But we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies." He looked to her at her chuckle. "You find this amusing?"   
  
Liandra placed her right hand on his upper arm. "I know, Solas. I am doing everything in my power to foster their trust. What more would you have me do?"   
  
His eyes narrowed and he looked back to the fire. "Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow. I know just the place that we can accomplish that."   
  
Liandra lowered her hand. "You do? More visions from the Fade?" He nodded, ears perking up. "Then lead the way, lethallin."   
  
He shook his head. "By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it, changed _you_ . Scout to the north, be their guide. They pledge their faith to you, and you must prove yourself worthy of it. You must lead them."   
  
She shifted her weight carefully. Pain caressed her ankle, shot up her leg. "Will there be time to recover?” 

Solas glanced down, taking in her injuries. His brow knit. “I do not believe so, lethallan.” It was the closest to an apology she would get.

She sighed gently. “Of course not. What am I looking for?"   
  
He turned back to the camp. "There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. Abandoned for centuries. A place where the Inquisition can rebuild." He shook his head. "Not just rebuild, _grow_ ."   
  
Liandra looked to the snow. Everything hurt, but she knew Solas was right. She needed to be the one to lead them out of these mountains, regardless, or perhaps in spite, of her injuries. "Thank you for your insight, Solas. Despite our differences, I appreciate all of your advice."   
  
He smiled back to her. "Thank you, lethallan. I only hope that my own faith in you is not misplaced." He motioned toward the camp. A large figure was approaching, a familiar mane around his shoulders. "I have taken up too much of your time."   
  
Solas bowed his head toward her and made his way back down the snowbank. He and the Commander exchanged nods as they passed. 

As the Commander drew closer, he offered her a weak smile. "Sorry for interrupting."   
  
"Solas and I had concluded our talk. You interrupted nothing." Her hand sparked, forcing a snarl.   
  
He closed the distance between them, reaching out to take the sparking hand in one of his gloved hands. He turned it over, checking it. Liandra felt her throat close, trying to find someplace to put her eyes that did not result in butterflies filling her stomach. “You know you really should be resting, Herald.” 

She shook her head. “Mother Giselle was right, much as I want to deny it. The Inquisition needs me.” She shifted her weight, a pained cough escaping her. He moved closer. “Besides, the four of you shouting was doing little to help.”

His arm lifted, bent at the elbow, and she held onto it as she shifted her weight around. She only had one good leg, and it ached from overuse. “Cassandra is used to a certain level of... physicality from her troops. But most of the people that made it out of Haven are villagers, just women and children. The men that made it out, most of them have injuries, though none as much as you. Others mourn their friends...” He sighed and watched her try to roll her shoulder. “Ah, no. You have to keep it still. It was dislocated when we found you.”

She furrowed her brow and sighed. His attentions were not unwelcome, and she wondered where the hiss of her Keeper had gone, why the Envy-Commander did not sneer at her from behind this one's worried expression. “Fine, fine... I'm just not used to this...”

He raised his eyebrows and smirked, his hand rubbing her upper arm to provide some warmth. The butterflies fluttered faster. “You've never been in a battle?”

She frowned. “Yes, that's right, tease the wounded, invalid Herald.” They shared a chuckle, hers strained through the pain. “Just... never been injured this bad. Cassandra and Blackwall protect us on the battlefield and I can usually keep would-be attackers away with magic but...” She looked to her left shoulder. “He held me by this arm, threw me away as if I weighed nothing.” She closed her eyes, the full weight of what happened suddenly crushing her. Her right hand started to quiver. “I doubt even you are that strong, Commander.”

“You'd be surprised, Herald. Though I regret you were alone...” She could feel his guilt, the demons swirling around him. His other hand moved to rub her other arm, assuming her shivering was from the cold. The movements warmed her deeper than their friction allowed. "I'm afraid we don't have much time for pleasantries, Herald. Despite our best efforts to determine our location, we have yet to find it on any of the maps." He motioned back toward the camp. "These men and women cannot remain in this camp forever and Haven is far too dangerous to return to."

“What with it being under a mountain of rock.” She reminded him. Her shivering calmed slightly, comforted at the idea that whatever was there was probably crushed.

He tilted his head. His hands had stopped on her arms, and she could feel the fingers tensing slightly. He longed to pull her closer. His golden hazel eyes searched her face for a moment before settling back on hers. "Yes, well... I was hoping- We were all hoping you may have heard something, an idea of where to go."   
  
Her eyes drifted off the Commander's lip scar toward the camp. Solas lingered at the outskirts. She had to be strong. The Inquisition still needed her. "I have... heard that we should head to the north." Her eyes drifted back to him. "Once everyone has had a chance to recover a bit more, I will assist in the forward scouting to ensure that we are headed in the right direction."   
  
The Commander frowned to her. More demons drifted around him. His hands rubbed her arms again. "You should be among those recovering, not assisting with forward scouting.” 

Her hands drew into fists. The motion caught his eyes and she wished her body had not been so injured as to not heal fully. “I'm the only one that knows where to go, Commander... Much as I would love to, the Inquisition needs me more than I need to recover.”

The Commander's brow furrowed. “The Inquisition would be lost without you, Herald. You have a direction for the us to travel. We can outfit a wagon or a horse to carry you.”

Her brow furrowed, pulling at the bruises one her face. “I am not such a delicate _elf_ that I can't help!” 

The Commander's back stiffened. “No one is saying that, Herald. But without you, we have no one to close the rifts. All it takes is one tumble off a hill and you might puncture your lungs again.”

She growled slightly. “And what sort of message does that send the rest of the troops, the rest of the pilgrims? Their Herald is fallible?”

He took a step closer. “This isn't about the Inquisition, Herald! This is about your survival! I was so frightened.” He closed his eyes tightly. “We almost lost you, Liandra.” His eyes opened, shifted to the side, avoiding hers. “The Inquisition needs you, yes, but it needs you **healthy** . You serve no purpose martyring yourself.” 

Those fractures appeared behind his eyes, demons swirling around him. He had spoken her name, foreign yet familiar on his tongue, and she relished it. Rarely did anyone speak her name, calling her lethallan or Spitfire or Boss or Herald. She was not ready for the impact it had on her.

The Commander had admitted to his worry and immediately distanced himself. She waited for the Keeper's hiss, for the Envy-Commander to take his place, but nothing came. He continued to rub her upper arms, keeping his eyes on her chin, on her shoulder, careful not to jostle her too much.

She swallowed the razors and looked to the snow. “I'll agree to keep a wagon close by for the Inner Circle. I'm sure Varric will enjoy the easy ride.”

He sighed and nodded to her. “Thank you, Herald.” His hands slowly, reluctantly slid off her arms. “I'll go alert Cassandra and the others. With any luck, we'll be able to survive before our rations run out." He turned away, headed back toward the camp. Back into the easy role he played with her.   
  
"Commander!" She wasn't sure why she said it, what demon had stolen her tongue when he turned away. She had thought she would never see him again when she left the Chantry, headed for the trebuchet. Was that when the Keeper had stopped hissing in her ear? He looked back to her and she looked down, suddenly feeling foolish. "I, um..." She could hear the song they had sung still being hummed among the camp. "That song, what is it from?"   
  
He smiled and took a few steps back to her. "I don't suppose you would know it. It's one of Andraste's hymns. Not one of the more popular ones, if I recall correctly. I only remember hearing it once I joined the Templars." He looked back to the camp, demons swarming around him despite his easy demeanor. "Rather apropos for our forces, actually."   
  
Liandra chuckled. She watched the furs on his shoulders raise at the noise. "It is, isn't it. It is also rather beautiful, I must admit. Leliana has a beautiful voice. I thought I heard yours added to the chorus as well. Is that right?" His back stiffened.   
  
He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, it was one of my favorites. Gave me strength in my weakest moments. Especially after..." He hummed and took a step toward camp. "I should spread the word, get our troops their orders." He bowed, but never turned toward to her. "By your leave, Herald."   
  
She frowned as the distance between them grew. There was something he was keeping from her, something he had skirted for the last few months. _He has to endure. He's been through so much worse_ . 

The torch flickered in the strong mountain winds, sending chills down her spine.


	6. Healing Process

Skyhold had become very busy shortly after their arrival. Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and the Commander all kept full schedules getting the keep up and running. Josephine had to find the gold and dwarves and tradesmen to repair it. She also had the job of telling Leliana who to send word of their new location to while the Spymaster found a place to hold all the birds that carried their letters. Cassandra busied herself with finding a place for the armory and the training area, while the Commander agonized over where to put the troops, the injured, the refugees.

Liandra had been sequestered, much to her chagrin, in the first available room just inside Skyhold while the rest of it was repaired. She still needed time to heal, to rest, to sleep. The healers tents were set up just outside the small tower she slept in. She emerged more often than her advisors would've liked, frequently ushered back in by the Commander. He had set a station up just across the courtyard from the gates, beside the healers' tents. Perhaps to keep an eye on her? She had been made Inquisitor, and she had to live to fulfill her role.

Harritt had set himself up in the main building in an area he dubbed The Undercroft. He set to the task of making her a new staff to christen their arrival, their newfound safety. He had brought it to her in her room, stammered out a thanks, and left it by her bed.

The Commander had visited her frequently between reports, sharing the good news. She would have to prod him for the bad, but he would discuss it as well. He would linger at the desk against the opposite wall, occasionally finding a seat to read the reports. He never lingered for very long, called away by Cassandra or Iron Bull or Dennet. She would find her way through the stack of books that Dorian and Solas had left with her.

There were some days when she just couldn't stay in the guard station any longer, when she had exhausted her stack of books and testing her magics. She grabbed her staff and leaned against it as she made her way to the door. The stairs were a bit difficult to navigate, but she made it to the ground and caught sight of the Commander in full duty. She limped her way toward him with the help of her staff.   
  
"I'll need an update on the armory as well." The Commander looked back to the map, freshly inked and still drying from the cartographer. The messenger scratched at his chest, the rustle of fabric alerting the larger man to his lingering. The Commander lifted his head and glowered at the messenger. "Now!" Liandra smirked as the man saluted and walked past her.   
  
The Commander caught her lurking out of the corner of his eye. She limped closer with the help of her staff. "I see you're recovering nicely now that we have a more permanent residence. Though I still believe you should be doing so, not out here.” 

She shrugged, remembering his admission by the fire. “I am glad I have a chance to settle down. Everything is still sore. I just wish there was more to do. I've read through that stack of books the others keep bringing me.”

The Commander raised his eyebrows. “All of them? Maybe you _have_ been in here a bit too long.”

She chuckled, seeking the smile he shared with her. She nodded around her. “How goes everything out here?”

He turned to the map. “We set up at Haven as best we could. An incomplete force occupying a broken village. We could never have anticipated anything like an Archdemon, or... whatever it was. With some warning, we might have-"   
  
She raised a hand to his elbow. It had calmed him on more than one occasion, as it did now. "Commander, I doubt there was any way we could've prepared Haven for _a dragon_ . Though I appreciate your optimism." She smiled up to him. What would the Keeper think of her?   
  
Liandra did not recognize the press of his lips, the flush of his cheeks at her touch, her smile. "Regardless, if Corypheus strikes again, we may not be able to withdraw. We have to be ready. Everyone is working hard to repair Skyhold, guard rotations have been established. The Inquisition should be back on course within the week." He moved a hand to the pommel of his sword. "We will not run from here, Inquisitor. And I wouldn't want to." She could see Dorian's words had gotten to him.   


Liandra shifted her weight with the help of her staff. “Not that I could.” They shared a chuckle, though his brow knit in concern. 

His hands gripped his pommel with a slight creak of leather. “Are you sure you should be up and about, Inquisitor?”

She rolled her eyes. “I'm fine, Commander. I need a bit of exercise just as much as I need rest. You can stop worrying so much.”

He frowned, taking a glance over her two most prominent injuries. “It could've been much worse...”

She knew all too well how much worse it could've been. But she had been able to escape, mostly thanks to the soldiers that had held off the Venatori, that had loaded the trebuchet. How many of them had made it all the way to Skyhold? How many were in the healers' tents because of Chancellor Roderick's path?

The Chancellor had allowed them the luxury of running at all, along with the sacrifice of the agents that helped her with the trebuchet. She pressed her lips together, flexing her hand in her sling. "Do you know how many were lost in Haven, Commander?"   
  
He turned back to the table. His shoulders sagged slightly, the mark of a man who recognized any loss was too much. "Most of our people made it to Skyhold, but it could have been much worse." He retrieved a piece of paper and held it out to her. "I have assigned a few of my men to asking the survivors for those that have been lost.”   
  
Liandra fidgeted beside him. The paper was the names of those they had lost. Her stomach fell. "This list, there should be less names on it."   
  
He raised a glove to the back of his neck. "Some have filtered in, lost during the trek through the mountains. Others required more days to recover from their injuries, while others have yet to be found.” His hand dropped back onto his pommel. “This list grows by the day, and every name I mark off as Found makes it easier to bear.” His voice was soft, warmer than she remembered hearing from him.   
  
More lives lost because of Corypheus and the power he scorched into her hand. More lives in service to the Inquisition, the Herald, the Inquisitor. More lives lost because of _her_ . She offered it back to him. "I can only hope I am good enough to live up to their memories." She watched the list return to the table. "Their families, are they being compensated in any way?"   
  
The question must have surprised him, his head whipped to her, confusion knit in his brow. "The families of those that we lost are here, safe and sound. They will be well taken care of as members of the Inquisition. Basic needs, anything else a merchant might bring through. I have also asked Josephine to find the funds to compensate their losses."   
  
Liandra looked away. When a hunter was lost in the clan, a search party was sent out to locate the body, to find something that could be given to the remaining family members to honor them by. A funeral rite was performed. They were honored, remembered. Throwing money at the survivors seemed paltry. "When will we hear word that Haven is safe to search?"   
  
The Commander shook his head. "Leliana might have people on that. Our priority is here for now." He tilted his head. "This bothers you." She heard the question, the concern.   
  
"Death isn't something to get used to. Just because we are at war, we are a military force, doesn't mean we should become desensitized to the pain of those around us. Death is a finality, it is the end of a life. A life that impacted all the others around it. There has to be something to mark that life as sacred, remembered." She lifted her eyes to him, daring him to disagree. "Whenever we have the numbers, I would like a force, or a unit, or a collection of agents, or whatever sent to Haven's rubble to search for the bodies. If there are no bodies, then trinkets, tokens, _clothing_ , I don't care. Something to give to those families that lost a loved one. Something for them to carry with them, to bear the memory of those lost."   
  
The Commanders eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. "Of course, Inquisitor Lavellan."   
  
The title, coupled with her clan name, forced a scoff. She couldn't really call herself a Lavellan anymore. "I'm not a Lavellan any longer. Inquisitor is fine. Odd as it sounds."   
  
The Commander chuckled, a smirk playing on his lips. "Not at all, you've already more than lived up to it."   
  
Liandra locked eyes with the human, golden hazel smiling down to her, proud. "Thank you, Cullen." She heard the leather of his gloves creak on his pommel. She had used his name during the attack, when she thought she was never going to see him again. "Our escape from Haven... I'm glad your plan wasn't our only option. I'm relieved that you- and so many others made it out alive." Distance, Liandra, keep your distance.   
  
He smiled to her, guarded. "As am I." She watched him carefully, watched the guarded smile fade, the will to hold her gaze crack. His eyes fell to the side, his lips pressed into a hard line.   
  
Liandra felt the tension, felt the words he did not dare to say. The gap between them filled with them. She was unwelcome this close to him. The demons drew close to him again, the amber of his eyes fractured again. As he had by the fire after her talk with Solas. _He fights it, feels the scorch marks, tries to will it away._ She nodded to him and turned away. Distance.   
  
"You stayed behind." His voice was soft again, following her. "You could have-" She stopped and turned her ear toward him. The leather of his gloves creaked again. Demons swirled around him, demons she had not felt around him before. "I will not let the events at Haven happen again. You have my word, Inquisitor."   
  
She nodded over her shoulder to him. "I'll hold you to that, Commander. “ Keep your distance, but not too far. 

\---

The repairs were coming along to Skyhold quite nicely, mostly thanks to the refugees that wanted to express their gratitude to the Inquisition for saving their lives at Haven. As thanks to the refugees for helping with the rebuilding of Skyhold, Cullen agreed to have his forces, more freed up due to the refugees' assistance, to search for articles of those lost. The news of the Commander's benevolence spread, and the rebuilding effort was finished ahead of schedule.

Cullen's work was hardly ever done, however. He spent a majority of his time in his office, occasionally leaving to visit the War Room when the Inquisitor called a meeting. She had called many of them as she recovered slowly from the events at Haven. He had seen her in the training area spending a lot of time with her fellow mages, testing the limits of their powers. She had been worried about what Corypheus had done to her, he surmised. And she refused to go back into the field until she had fully gauged her new powers.

He found it admirable. From what he understood of her life back in her Dalish clan, she had absolutely no reason to care so much about the lives of others. The clan had treated her so poorly, watching her like she were a feral beast waiting for its chance to strike. And yet she spent so much of her time worrying about how her magic affected others, ensuring that the refugees were taken care of. Even in the face of near-death, she had limped her way ahead of the Inquisition's march to determine if they were headed in the proper direction. He was glad she found her way to the wagon he had convinced her to keep close by.

His chest tightened and he cleared his throat. The scars left from his torture in Kinloch burned more often when he thought of her. He knew exactly why they burned. They had started burning when he first saw her, but only when he saw her bright green eyes and vibrant red hair and the way her armor held her figure. It was after they had talked, gotten close, the scars burned when he thought of her at all. It wasn't until the attack on Haven, at the prospect of losing her, that the scars had ventured into unbearable territory. He had looked often for a way to heal them. They were magical in nature, there should be some kind of cure.

He wandered through Solas's chamber and tried not to disturb the elf's studying. A simple nod of greeting was exchanged between them as the Commander made his way up to the library.

“Ah, Commander, I didn't know you had a love of books.” Dorian smoothed his mustache at the top of the stairs. “Or are you here to see me?”

Cullen shook his head slightly, then thought better of it. “I'm looking for an answer but I don't know where to start. Would you be willing to help me look?”

Dorian smirked. “Commander, for you? Anything.” He bowed his head slightly. “What are you looking for?”

Cullen cleared his throat. He wasn't sure how to approach the subject without explaining what had happened to him. “I... need healing for scars left by a demon.”

Dorian arched a brow. “Demonic scars are usually left on mages, Commander.” He motioned to the opposite side of the library and crossed his arms over his chest. “Or are you worried about our little Inquisitor?”

Cullen followed the Tevinter's gesture and found the Inquisitor curled up with her splinted leg resting on a stack of books that did not have homes. His brow furrowed and he raised a hand to his temple, his touch soothing the burn. “Has she come to you with concerns?”

Dorian tilted his head. “Not me, Commander. Perhaps you?”

Cullen furrowed his brow, his hand falling away. “Me? No, she hasn't come to me.”

Dorian waved a hand before replacing it in his crossed arms. “There's not a way to heal demonic scars on the mind anyhow. They aren't physical in nature. They are usually inflicted on the soul in the Fade. I suppose you could ask the elf to enter the Fade with you. He loves to wander the Fade. He might be able to heal your wounds.”

Cullen looked back to the Inquisitor. She flipped the page on a book, brow furrowed in confusion. A question formed unspoken on his lips. Her eyes scanned the page quickly, her brow relaxing slightly. “I will take it into consideration, Dorian. Thank you.”

Dorian smirked. “You spend an awful lot of time in your office, Commander. How would you like to take a break?”

He tilted his head at the Inquisitor. Usually he took his breaks with her. Those were the most refreshing. Admittedly he had taken a lot more breaks with Varric and Cassandra and several others since joining the Inquisition, but it was the Inquisitor that he enjoyed the company of the most. The scars burned hotter. “Do you know what she's reading?”

Dorian chuckled and his hand found the Commander's shoulder. “I believe she was asking after _The Chant of Light_ and the _Templar Manual_ earlier. She's been sitting over there for several hours, reading intently. I thought I saw her heading back into the Chantry section and pull a few more books out.”

Cullen lifted a hand to his temple to cool the fires. A Dalish elf looking into Andrastian religion and history didn't seem odd, but the Templar Manual? She had been asking a lot about Templars. They had recruited the Templars as allies and most had been able to make it to Skyhold. Was this part of the care she had? She wanted to understand them, to be able to help them, to understand and help him.

He took a deep breath. The scars were consuming him. He had to get his mind off of her, off of the thoughts he tried to bury that burned through the scars. “A break would be nice, Dorian. Do you play chess?”

\---

She had gone into the courtyard to check on the elfroot she had planted. How the herb was so versatile was beyond her, and it drove her insane when she was informed she never had enough. She heard Dorian's laugh brought to her from the opposite side of the courtyard, followed by the Commander's easy chuckle.

The Tevinter Mage and the Ferelden ex-Templar, playing a game of chess. As she approached, the Commander half-stood from his seat.

“Leaving so soon? Does that mean I win?” Dorian's smug grin angled his mustache.

Liandra allowed a chuckle as the Commander sat back down. “I hope you two are playing nice?”

Dorian angled his head at her. “I'm _always_ nice.” His eyes leveled hungrily on the Commander and he leaned forward. One hand grabbed a piece and he shifted it to a new spot on the board. “You'll need to come to terms with my inevitable victory, Commander.” He leaned back. “You'll feel much better.” 

The Commander narrowed his eyes at the board. His hand moved one piece to counter the mage's move and he leaned back. “I feel great, considering I just won.”

Dorian sputtered and sat forward. His eyes scanned the board. Liandra chuckled again. “He is the Commander for a reason, Dorian.”

Dorian raised his hands and turned away to stand from his chair. “Don't get smug, Commander. There will be no living with you.” Dorian nodded his head to the Commander and to her as he walked by. “I should return to my studies. Thank you for the game, Commander.”

The Commander practically beamed at his victory. “I suppose I should return to my duties as well.” He motioned toward the chess board. “Unless you'd care for a game, Inquisitor?”

Liandra shifted uncomfortably at the edge of the gazebo. She was still healing and really shouldn't be on her feet. And it had been a while since they had spent any amount of time together. But the game, Chess, had always been a mystery to her. “I'm not sure I remember how to play.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Dalish elves have chess?”

She frowned at the accusation. “There was a member of my clan that become obsessed with board games. He wasn't afraid of me and I liked to play with him. I found it entertaining.” She nodded to herself. “You know what? Prepare the board, Commander.”

He chuckled, still riding high on his victory over Dorian. As she sat down, the board was reset by his experienced, however shaky, hand. “As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin on her face whenever she won.” He placed the last piece, mirth in his words. “Which was _all_ the time.” His leathers creaked under his armor as he shifted in the seat to get more comfortable. “My brother and I practiced together for _weeks_ . I was the one to finally challenge her again. The look on her face when I finally won...” A giggle burbled forth from his scarred lips. 

Liandra raised her eyebrows. Her eyes fell to his knees, widened around the table, then followed the line to his hand and back up to his face. “Must've been a sight.” She had missed these moments, when he filled the distance between them. As the white player, she made her first move.

His smile faded slightly, eyes focusing somewhere between the Now and the Then. “Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven't seen my family in years.” He made his first move, playing black. The angle of his brow became pensive. “I wonder if she still plays...”

Liandra narrowed her eyes at his move and studied the board. Several steps ahead, predict his moves. That was the game. “I'm sure the Inquisition can survive without you for a few days if you'd like to make the trip. I could stay behind to make sure everything runs smoothly.” He acted as her proxy in Skyhold when she was in the field most days, being of similar rank, mind, and temperament. She moved another piece.

He shook his head and leaned forward. “I appreciate the offer, Inquisitor, but my duties keep me here.” He spoke her title with such affection.

She looked up to him. The concern had gone, leaving nostalgia on his brow. “Are they far?” He had done the same for her once, offered to let her visit her clan.

“My sister and brother moved to South Reach after the Blight encroached on our childhood home, largely at my insistence. I haven't heard from my youngest sister in quite some time.” He finally made another move. She furrowed her brow, having anticipated another. “I do not write to them as often as I should.”

She could feel the regret clinging to him, the pleasures he sacrificed in favor of duty. Even this game of chess they played served him in his position as Commander. “You write so many reports a day. Can't find the time to send a letter to your family?” She moved a piece.

He shrugged. “I'm never quite sure what to say. I don't want to reveal our movements, but there is so little interesting about me without my duties.” He moved another piece.

“I would beg to differ, Commander. I discover new things about you nearly every day.” It wasn't a lie. “Such as: I was unaware you had made friends with Dorian, considering how many friends you said you made in Kirkwall.”

He laughed heartily at the comment. “Ah yes, of course. In my defense, I did make friends with Varric and Cassandra while I was there. And Hawke.”

She tilted her head as he moved a piece. “You never did get the chance to tell me about how that came about, you know.” She leaned forward to study the board. She set her jaw. He had been making a lot of rather incorrect moves.

“I actually met her on the coast during an investigation. She had been investigating the disappearance of a few older noble women and her discoveries had led her and I to the same camp. I was... interrogating one of the soldiers under my command. He refused to cooperate. When Hawke arrived, he revealed himself to be an abomination.” She moved her piece. “Hawke helped me fight it and the other demons it summoned. I was going to take her in for being a mage, but she had saved another young Templar from a similar fate. I agreed to accept the Templar back into the Order under the condition that she be free from the Circle.” He countered her move with a shaking hand.

She caught the shaking and looked up to him. He held his hands between his knees, trying to control them. “Seems like she got the better end of that deal.” Her brow furrowed as she attempted to focus on the board.

His armor rattled with the shrug of his shoulders. “The Templar had been part of a ritual, binding demons inside Templars so that they might be used to infiltrate the Order and destroy them from within. By accepting him into the Order, I gained another sword against the Blood Mage threat that Knight-Commander Meredith ranted about. And by remaining outside of the Circle, Hawke gave me her word she would do everything in her power to keep the city stable. There were places she could and did go that I could not. So I gained an agent in the city that I trusted that was outside of Meredith's influence.”

“I can't say I would've made a different decision. But I suppose you have to foster the good where you find it.” She leaned back, pulling her bottom lip up, her brow down. “You were a Templar at the time, though, so it's a surprise you made the call at all.”

He took a deep breath and fidgeted in his seat. “I suppose I should have made a different decision.”

She lifted her head, watching his leg bounce. “Why didn't you? If everything went as you say, then there would've been every justification for hauling her off to the... Circle.”

His brow furrowed, heavy with confusion and memories. “Templars were being corrupted by demons, Blood mages. But Hawke was against them. She was different... Perhaps the Maker whispered in my ear, reminding me that there were still good mages in the world.” His aura shifted, demons descending. There was a story there, a story that he kept inside.

Liandra let her gaze shift back down to the board. He wasn't ready to share it, and she wasn't going to push him. They remained in a comfortable silence for a few moments as she decided on a move.

The Commander fidgeted again, his fingers meeting between his knees, shaking a bit harder now. “I saw you earlier today, in the library. Dorian tells me you were reading up on the Chantry?”

She held a hand to her lips. None of the moves she had available looked very good, but if she sacrificed a piece he had a multitude of options to move into a trap. “The history of the Chantry is well-documented. I thought it best to get acquainted with the religion I am purported to be the Herald of.”

He nodded absently. “And I suppose the Templar books were to better understand the alliance you've made?”

She felt the blush creep up her neck. She cleared her throat and moved a piece. He was rather good at interrogations. “Among other things, yes.”

The Commander's scarred lip curled into a half smile. “You know, this may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition since arriving at Skyhold. I've missed it.” She was glad he did not press for further clarification.

She felt one corner of her lips lift, a smirk. The butterflies took up residence in her stomach, her heart beating against her chest. She wished her hair was down to cover the blush she felt creep onto her ears. “I appreciate the distraction as well.”

His brow perked up. “I thought you never wanted to do this again.” He was teasing her, but she could hear the genuine curiosity, the hope.

She felt her heart skip a beat. She had said that, back in Haven. Before the Envy-Commander forced her to see what she truly felt. When the Keeper still hissed in her mind against him. “My apologies for my earlier behavior, Commander. I... I was still making the transition.”

He straightened his neck, worry etched into his features. A piece was moved absently to take one of hers. It was a poor decision. “I was just teasing, Inquisitor.”

She shook her head. “You are right, though. And I regret what I did. I would be more than happy for you to... distract me more often.”

She watched the realization wash over him, ears shifted back, a blush rising on his cheeks. Those scars fractured his golden hazel eyes, demons settling onto the shell around him. “I... I would like that as well.”

She wet her lips and tore her eyes away, back to the board. “We should... finish our game.” She cleared her throat and made a move.

“What about you, Inquisitor? Any family?” He leaned forward, looking over the pieces on the board.

She shook her head. “The clan likes to raise the children together as a unit. You have parents, and they take care of you until you join the group. All the children are raised to be hunters until they display a special talent, like one being touched by the Fade.” He moved a shaky hand to grab a piece. “I'm not sure they would be very proud of me anyway.”

His hand moved off the piece and moved to another. “I find that hard to believe. You've accomplished so much in the time you've been away from your clan.”

She blushed, tucking a bit of stray hair behind her long ear. “Mages are not as fondly accepted among the Dalish. We do not have Templars, but that's not to say we can roam without supervision.” His piece was moved, a few moves away from taking one of hers if she did not counter. She frowned. “Mages that do not become Keeper or the Keeper's apprentice are viewed as a necessary evil. And they are constantly reminded of that fact.” Her head lifted. There. The winning gambit. She moved her piece and raised a hand to hide her grin.

His eyes shifted to her, then back to the board. She could feel his pain on her behalf, his desire to comfort her. His hand moved to grab a piece and she watched him follow it through all the possibilities. It took a few moments, but he lifted his brow. “Maker, looks like you've won.” He leaned back, his legs relaxing wide. “Well played, Inquisitor.”

She chuckled. She had enjoyed taking her mind off the more serious matters for a few moments. “I guess I remembered how to play after all.”

He smiled to her, unguarded. She had missed it. “I hope you know we will have to play again sometime.”

Her brow furrowed as she started to go over the moves of their game. “I assume it will be in a few weeks, after thorough 'practicing' against Dorian?”

The Commander moved to stand. “I doubt it will take that long.”

She looked to the board and stood beside him. “Maybe you could write to your sister about this.”

He paused and looked back to her. “That's not a bad idea, Inquisitor.” He stepped down into the courtyard. “You wouldn't want to write to your friend, the one that plays board games?”

She froze in her movements to put the pieces away into the chess table. She hadn't sent word back to them since the explosion at the Conclave. There had been so much thrust onto her in the aftermath, it hadn't been a consideration. “I... I should, shouldn't I. I haven't sent word back to them. I figured it would be best if they thought me dead.”

“I wouldn't like to think that.” His voice was heavy, filled with longing and despair.

Her breath hitched in her throat. “But I suppose he is as good a place to start as any. He never had anything against me. Getting a letter to him would be easier than trying to message the Keeper.” The pieces were all returned to the inside of the table.

“Leliana might know how to get in touch with them, Inquisitor. Though Josephine would be able to handle the phrasing better.” He took a few steps away, his boots crunching on the ground of the courtyard. “Thank you again for the game, Inquisitor.”

She turned around to him and felt his eyes wandering her face, memorizing it. “It was a welcome distraction.”

“Very welcome...” He smirked and she blushed at the husky nature of his voice. A different demon joined the others that whirled around him. He cleared his throat, turning away from her. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

She turned back to the board, heat rising in her cheeks. The movements of the game kept her distracted from the sound of his voice. Her brow furrowed as she went through the moves. He had done it deliberately. He had positioned himself poorly as often as possible, but played well enough to make her think she was beating him. He had _let her win_.

\---

He had taken to roaming the halls when the reports were done, when the planning was sufficient. He had wanted to go check the trebuchets again, but their operators had shooed him away. The halls of Skyhold were plentiful and the walks kept him further and further away from the bad dreams to be found in his tower. The troops stationed around Skyhold would typically salute, while the workers would move out of his way. Sometimes he found himself by the kitchen, politely asking the staff for a glass of Halla milk, and his preference be kept quiet. The staff would either giggle or grunt in response and return to work, and he would linger with a report so that no one else would bear witness.  
  
"She wonders what you look like without your fur, but I told her it doesn't come off."  
  
Cullen started at the soft words of Cole, and turned toward the source, but the boy was long gone. Or keeping himself hidden. Blasted spirit.  
  
"Oh! No, I can manage. Thank you for being so accommodating. I'll make sure Josie expedites replacements." It was her voice. Her accent was fading from being around so many different persons, but he could still hear the Dalish on the edges.  
  
The Inquisitor emerged from the kitchen stock room with a large collection of items: a large wrapped piece of meat, a bag he assumed held vegetables, handles poked out of the open crate these items rested on, and a small pot dangled by the handle from her hands holding the crate. He furrowed his brow and watched as she headed down the hall toward the main hall. She still limped, though she had not had need of the splint for several days yet. The arm holding both crate and pot flexed and sagged, causing her to pause to adjust her grip. In her adjustments, the pot fell to the floor with a few loud clangs, rolled a bit, and was covered in onions as the crate was tipped.  
  
" _Emma shem'nan_." The words were uttered darkly as she crouched down, the crate placed on the floor, and started the process of recovering her vegetables. He wondered briefly what the Elven words translated to. He should endeavor to find a language dictionary in the library.  
  
"Inquisitor!" Cullen moved beside her and started to recover her onions as well, placing them in the crate.  
  
"Commander!” The potato she was holding dropped into the pot. “You startled me." Their combined efforts returned the spilled vegetables to the crate, pot, or bag, and she moved to recover the crate. “What brings you down this way?”  
  
"Allow me, Inquisitor." Cullen retrieved the crate and stood. Her shoulder still needed rest. "My office was getting a bit busy. I needed to slip away for a break." The Inquisitor graced him with a warm smile and picked up the pot. He had so many questions, but which to ask first.  
  
"Thank you for the help, Commander." She tucked a stray hair behind her long ear and continued down the hall. "I'm sure Dorian wouldn't mind another game of chess. Varric might also enjoy your company. Or Cassandra could probably use a training partner. With me out of commission for so long, she's ruined the training dummies too often. The people that make them have been refusing to make new ones."

He chuckled easily. Conversations were hardly this easy with anyone else. “That sounds like the Lady Seeker. Perhaps I will see if she'd like a better partner.” She had been sending messengers about his drills for a while. A chance to speak with her directly, maybe even get a proper demonstration, was in order.

The Inquisitor nodded, a coy smile playing behind her lips. His gloves creaked around the edges of the heavy crate. “Since they won't make any new ones, she's been spending most of her time reading.”

His brow furrowed. “Reading? Reports, or...?”

She giggled slightly and stretched her neck toward him. Her voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She's actually a big fan of Varric's stories. _Swords and Shields_ specifically.” 

His eyes caught the curve of her neck, the grace of her smile, the crinkle of her eyes. He swallowed hard, trying to fight the pain that burned under his skull. “Isn't _Swords and Shields_ that... romance serial?” 

The Inquisitor smirked and nudged a door open that lead to a hall that lead to the main hall of Skyhold. “She let me borrow her copy. I agree that it's not Master Tethras's best work, but I can see the appeal.” She cleared her throat and closed the door behind him.  
  
Cullen glanced to the Elven Inquisitor and cleared his throat. The scars continued to burn. "You... are taking this to your room?" Was not the question he had wanted to ask.  


She nodded to him as they meandered down the hall. “Yes.”

Cullen felt a tightness in his chest, felt the headache coming on as she turned back around. His eyes fall to her waist, her hips. Maybe he should've remained in his office. "If I may, Inquisitor, why do you want these things in your room?"  
  
He heard her smile, saw it in the bounce of her step. "I requisitioned some halla meat from one of our agents in the field. The halla was a casualty of another battle. I wasn't sure the feelings of the clan out there on using halla meat so I didn't give them any but the poor things are running low on supplies and people. I couldn't let it go to waste, not when it's been so long since I've had some, so I had some sent here for m-myself." She opened the door to the main hall for him.  
  
"All you have to do is say the word and that clan will be under protection of the Inquisition." He heard the words fall from his lips, but his mind had latched onto her stutter. She wasn't one to stutter. He exited into the main hall, the cacophony of sounds rushed him and he felt his headache pulse. He frowned.  
  
"I fear they do not trust us yet. One of their clan wishes to join our cause, but I am having a hard time garnering their Keeper's favor." The door to her quarters was opened. "There we are. Not long now, Commander."  
  
He knew how much she cared, how much she tried to hide it. A Dalish Elven Mage showing care for the world that hates her? As he crossed the threshold into her apartment, he couldn't help but hear a chuckle that sounded suspiciously like Varric from across the din of the main hall. "Is there anything we can do to help?"  
  
The Inquisitor smiled and moved in behind him to shut the door. The main hall's noises were drowned out, and his headache with it. The scars still burned. "Up the stairs, Commander. Put it by the fireplace for now." He moved as directed and headed up the stairs. "I can handle this clan on my own, Commander. They need supplies but it would take too long to send a message, find what we need, send a message, have it delivered here- though I suppose it would make more sense to have it delivered near the clan for me to finish delivering to them." Her brow furrowed, working through the possibilities. She needed to. This was part of her.  
  
Cullen looked toward the bed, of Dwarven origin. The crate was placed by the fireplace, kept stoked by some unseen servant. The stained glass motifs represented Ferelden's Mabari worship, while the draperies looked to be from Orlais. His brow furrowed as he looked around the room, curious as to the wide array of representation. Though he realized there was nothing of Dalish origin. He remembered her making a comment about forsaking her clan name shortly after arriving at Skyhold, but he assumed she was still proud – or at least, aware – that she was Dalish. What could they have done to her to have her completely deny that part of herself?  
  
The Inquisitor, for her part, moved toward the desk nestled between her two balconies and sat down. He heard her muttering to herself in Elvish, grabbing a scrap of parchment and her quill. There was a second level to her room, though he wasn't sure why. The area looked to be too thin to accommodate much of anything except standing to look out over the rest of the room. At what, he wasn't sure.  
  
It smelled differently than the rest of Skyhold, though. Like herbs and perfume. By her bed rested her staff, the catalyst through which she channeled her powers. Her armor rested haphazardly on a chest at the end of her bed. She must've gotten changed in a hurry? His eyes drifted in her direction as she wrote her missive. Her hair was falling from her careful braids, forcing her to tuck it behind her ear again. The scars burned warmly, taking in the angle of her face, the curve of her neck, the way the red hair dangled before her bright green eyes, the loose hair tickling her skin. He blushed darkly, his headache returning as more unsavory thoughts flooded his mind.  
  
"Sorry, Commander. I just wanted to write that before I forgot." She stood from her desk and returned the quill to its resting place and the cork in the inkwell. "Where were we?"  
  
He shrugged slightly. The headache and the scars were becoming a bit too strong to hide. His hands found the comforting grip of his pommel. "My assistance is no longer needed, I presume?"  
  
She smiled warmly and nodded. He felt his chest and throat tighten. "Assistance, no, but you _are_ here. Perhaps a distraction is in order?" She smiled shyly to him and he shuffled in place.  
  
"I... have escaped my duties long enough, Inquisitor." He wanted to, he begged himself not to, but she was his Inquisitor.  
  
She frowned gently and nodded. "I have some work to do myself." She glanced to the floor. "Though, if I may, I would request you return in say, 3 hours time? I should be done by then."  
  
He felt the warmth reach his ears, but his face stayed blissfully cool. "As you command, Inquisitor." She looked away from him, her Mark reaching across her chest to hold her other arm. He saw it, felt the pain the motion tried to mask. He pressed his lips together and turned away.  
  
\---  


He had taken Cassandra up on the Inquisitor's offer of training. He had approached her in the armory where she kept her personal space upstairs and found her reading. She had turned bright red, trying to hide the book from him. He had needled her, and she had easily responded with questions about his withdrawal. Her concern was genuine, and he reassured her he was fine.

She had gone hard on him when they reached the outside. Bull had heard their sword strikes and grunts and come to join in. Soon all three were switching out until Bull suggested all three fight at the same time. Cullen had been a bit apprehensive, but Cassandra pressured him into it. Krem had found his way to spectate, and he heard Sera whooping from her window in the tavern.

It had taken some time, but Cullen had found a way to best both Bull and Cassandra. She spit a bit of blood onto the grass and he put his weapon away. “Cassandra, I'm sorry. Are you all right?”

She growled and slid her weapon into the frog at her hip. “Of course I am. Though if _you_ are able to best me, Commander, I am in need of more practice.”

He chuckled lightly, used to her form of affection, but Bull took a step between them. “Come on, Seeker, that's a bit uncalled for.”

Cullen raised a hand to place on the large Qunari's elbow, much in the way the Inquisitor did to attract his attention. “That's all right, Iron Bull.” He looked to Krem. “Maybe you should get your Captain inside to drink off his loss, hm?”

“Pretty boy's got a point.” Cullen felt the blush rise on his cheeks. “Come on, Captain, drinks're on you.”

It was Sera that called down to him from the window. “Commander Uptight can't make it. He's got a meeting.”

He looked up to her. “A meeting? How would you know, Jenny?”

She smirked down to him at the nickname. “The Jennies hear everything, Commander. I bet Elfy-quisitor is waiting for you.”

He swallowed hard. The idea that the Red Jennies knew so much was a bit terrifying. “Thank you for the reminder, Sera. I would certainly hope they aren't hearing too much, though.”

She waved to him and disappeared from her window, ending their conversation. He sighed heavily and touched a hand to his swollen eye. Perhaps he should go freshen up? He wasn't sure what she wanted him for, though. He should probably hurry.  
  
Varric glanced to him with a knowing smirk as Cullen passed through the main hall. Every step reminded him of another bruise. Hopefully the meeting with the Inquisitor would be brief so that he could get back to his quarters and rest up, maybe apply a few salves to his wounds.  
  
"I told her it doesn't come off, but she said she wanted to try. Under the fur." Cole's voice from behind the dragon maw throne. Cullen turned toward the throne and raised his fist to rap on the door.  
  
A muffled phrase responded. He could not understand the words, but he assumed her invitation and entered. "Inquisitor? You reque-"  
  
The smell, Maker, _the smell_. Those herbs from earlier filled the room, along with baked dough and a savory stew scent. He moved around to the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other on his pommel.  
  
"Oh good, you made it just in time. I wasn't sure how you liked your meat. Personally, I like mine rare." Someone had brought in a table in the time he had been sparring. It had four chairs, but only two had place settings, the rest of the table was covered with plates, bowls, and pots containing her dinner.  
  
He ascended the stairs, following the siren scent and her gentle Dalish accent. His eyes drifted around the table: chopped, boiled potatoes that could be easily mashed, herbs and oils clinging to every surface; a gravy off to the side with a pinch of herbs in the top, chunks of meat floating inside it; a mixture of vegetables boiled and resting in a broth; a basket of freshly baked bread, what appeared to be buns, glistening golden brown with butter. There were salt and pepper shakers, an extra stick of butter off to the side, along with a carafe of milk. The two place settings already had glasses, one with milk and one with what appeared to be a juice or wine. The place settings were next to each other, not across from each other. He lifted his eyes from the table to the Inquisitor.  
  
"Inquisit-" He froze. She was wearing a simple Dalish dress, retrofitted with Orlesian styles, most likely at the behest of Vivienne. Off the shoulder but around the neck, low enough to reveal a small amount of cleavage, but form-fitting and short. Her legs were not covered, not even her feet. But it was her hair that surprised him the most. She always had it in a series of braids held together in a bun at the back of her head, sensible, to keep it out of her face as she fought. Tonight, however, she had it down, auburn hair to her waist, curly from the constant braids.  
  
"Quickly, Commander, I don't want to overcook it. Rare? Medium? What do you prefer?"  
  
He could hear the promise of his name on his lips, sending flares behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't know. I haven't had a meal made to order in so long." He crested the top stair and looked around again. Her armor and staff were in the same place, her armor now accompanied by her usual button-down outfit. The dress was intentional. "Though, the chefs at the Circles in Ferelden and Kirkwall made everything Well Done. I don't recall liking it very much. Reminded me of chewing on leathers."  
  
She grinned and pulled a cooking plate away from the fire. "Chewed on a lot of leathers, I take it? I heard it was always the Chantry boys.” She collected the apron she had covering her dress and used it to grab the iron cooking pot from the fireside as a cough rose in his throat. “You made it just in time to eat it the way I like it, then." The cooking pot was moved to the table in the only free space left. "Though I suppose you coming in full armor was a good thing. The meat needs a few moments to rest and cool down. We can use that time to remove your armor."  
  
He felt his cheeks warm and raised his eyebrows. His mind was still reeling from the leather comment. "Remove it?"  
  
She turned around to him. She started, her ears flattening back under her hair. “Creators! What happened to-” She raised her eyebrows, then a smile found her he had never seen before. “You sparred with Cassandra.” He felt the magic collect in her hands. “Here, I'll heal you while we take off your armor. I don't expect you'll want to lay siege to your dinner? The gloves and vambraces will only get in the way. And this fur-"  
  
Cullen looked toward the door to her quarters. Cole's words echoed in his mind, bringing with it a headache, the burning. "The... Yes, of course."  
  
She smiled to him and moved closer, wiping her hands off on her apron. "I imagine it will be hard to do alone." She took his hand and turned his wrist to reveal the buckles underneath.  
  
He watched her expertly loosen the straps that fastened his armor on - just enough to slip it over his hands, keeping the straps together. The magic in her hands cooled its way up his arms, lingering and finding all the bruises he felt from the hits he had taken. A lingering spell that continued to every part of him, healing things he had not realized were injured. He felt his black eye reduce, felt an ingrown toenail repair. She smiled up to him once the vambraces were removed and placed them on the couch beside the stairs. He removed his own gloves and placed them next to it. Finally, his sword was rested up against the couch.  
  
"The chestplate, too, Commander." He could see her plea, feel the tightness in his chest. But the burning behind his eyes had lessened. Had that been part of her spell?  
  
"Inquisitor..." He wanted to say no, to cite any possible excuse. But he found himself feeling lighter, cooler without his gloves. His brow furrowed. "My it is warm in here, isn't it?"  
  
She chuckled. He melted. "I closed the balcony doors. The chilly mountain winds were wreaking havoc on my cooking."  
  
He blinked and lifted his arm to work on the straps that held his armor on. "I've been meaning to ask about that. Do Keepers usually do a lot of cooking?"  
  
She moved beside him, under his arm, and started to work on the strap as well. The task completed much faster than his attempt. He slid his fur-lined coat off, draped it over the couch, then his vest before finally he removed his chestplate. She stood back as he rested the chestplate on the floor by the couch. He felt much lighter, but much less protected. He grabbed at his fur-lined coat and she stayed his hand.  
  
"You said it's warm, right...?" The question was a bargain, a wish. He searched her face and smiled warmly. She bounced and wrapped her hand around his. He felt it, the soothing chill, the tingle of her magic from flesh against flesh. He had never touched her in this way before. "Come, I've been working hard on this dinner. I thought we could both deserve a break from the same things the tavern and the kitchens had to offer."  
  
She lead him to the table and sat him down at the setting with the milk. She hadn't answered his question. He must've offended her. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like to discuss your time in your clan."  
  
She took the towel off the cooking plate and revealed a stunning rack of halla ribs. Brown and bloody, glistening with butter and herbs. "That's all right.” She grabbed a large carving knife and cut off two thick slices of meat. She motioned for the plate across from her and he grabbed it. “Keepers have to maintain the knowledge and history of the clan, and most of the Dalish culture."The first steak was moved onto the plate and she took it from him. Potatoes and vegetables were moved onto the plate and she handed it back to him before motioning to her spot at the table. "Most Keepers have a set of things they need to pass down to their predecessors, like the language and Arlathan and all that." She took the plate and moved the other steak to it. "But some Keepers have other indulgences. I knew a Keeper that wanted to learn everything about Elven table games, like that one friend I mentioned. Potatoes?" He nodded. She spooned a hearty helping onto his plate. He motioned to the vegetables, and those were moved to the plate. She stuffed a roll between the vegetables and handed him back his plate.  
  
"And for you it was cooking?" He set his plate back down on the table and looked to the gravy. "Before you sit, could you pass the gravy?"  
  
She raised a hand to her lips with another Elven curse. "I knew I forgot something!" She moved the gravy closer to him and moved around the table. She scooped up two rolls on her way and placed them on her plate. "Yes, mine was cooking. If I hadn't been touched by the Fade, I might've tried to become a clan chef at this point." She reached behind her to untie her apron.  
  
Cullen smiled at this insight into the Inquisitor and covered his potatoes with gravy. Again, the conversation was easier with her than with the others. "I never would've pegged you for something so... mundane."  
  
The apron came off and rested on the back of the chair across from him and she remained standing there, her hip jutted out. He looked up to her and balked. "Maker, I've offended you. I'm sorry."  
  
She smirked and moved to her seat. "All right, shemlen, give it a try and tell me how **mundane** it is."  
  
He nodded slightly, admonished, and cut through the steak. Her use of the word _shemlen_ had diminished greatly from their first meeting. The steak was thick and heavily marbled, he could see that. Cutting into it only squeezed out fat and blood. All the meat and steaks he had eaten in the Circles had never looked this appetizing. He skewered the piece on his fork as she watched, cutting her own steak and popping a piece into her small mouth. He felt the burn return as he watched her red lips move. She started to chew, her eyes crinkling in joy, but she waited for his rather than fully enjoying it.  
  
He accepted her challenge, not wanting to keep her in suspense, nor himself really, and pulled the meat off into his mouth.  
  
It was heaven. The meat was succulent, melted, burst forth flavor onto his tongue. He closed his eyes to appreciate it, to languish in this luxury that she had afforded him. He never wanted it to end, but he knew the bite would be chewed and he'd have to swallow. The only thing that saved him was knowing he would be able to have another.  
  
He opened his eyes to her. Her lips had curved into an open smile. "I take it you like it?"  
  
He nodded numbly. "May I never call your cooking mundane again, Inquisitor." He sliced another piece off and looked up to her. "You said if you hadn't been touched by the Fade." It was fishing. He bit off his piece of meat and languished as he waited for her answer.  
  
She cleared her throat and took to her juice. "Magic. Magic comes from the Fade, grants mages their power. It is the will of the mage that shapes the Fade into whatever they want." She picked up one of the rolls on her plate and ripped it open. "Hence I call it that."  
  
Cullen watched her soak up a bit of the blood from her plate with the roll. He motioned to the gravy and she shook her head. "Ah, yes, I remember now.” He carved off another cube of meat. “Not the rest of your clan?"  
  
She nodded. "There's a lot that I do that the clan ended up not approving of. Especially my Keeper. She had a few apprentices, only one can be chosen to become Keeper of the clan. I didn't make the cut. It's why I was sent to spy on the Conclave at all." Her eyes became distant as she ripped pieces off her roll and popped it in her mouth.  
  
Cullen pressed his lips together. "In light of what happened, it might've been the best thing your Keeper could've done." She met his eyes and he offered a smile. "Well, aside from Corypheus and the Rifts, of course."  
  
She giggled. He smiled brightly. Her giggle was everything he had hoped for, bright and melodic and unabashed. She held nothing back tonight.  
  
He looked down to his rumpled undershirt and tried to smooth it. He rarely took his armor off. Mostly just to sleep or to have it repaired or cleaned. Not even for the walks around Skyhold or to eat his meals. How often had he removed his armor when he was in the Order? He had kept it on, except on the days when he was off duty. Though he usually spent those days resting in his bunk with a book or performing maintenance on his armor and weapons.

And yet here he was eating a meal alone in the Inquisitor's private quarters. Without his armor. The fires burned behind his eyes and he swallowed hard. He had changed in many ways since their first meeting. She had been so easy to talk to, so knowledgeable and altruistic. And she rarely judged him harshly for his ideals. She had only ever wanted to learn about him, about his beliefs, about his past.

She only ever wanted to do The Right Thing, regardless of the harm that came to her. Though her desire to be the only one to make that sacrifice worried him. So often did she throw herself into danger's path to protect others. Which was part of the reason why he found his way to her side so often. When he had first seen her sitting alone on the boulder so far from the camp, he had been worried for her safety. But after their talk on the dock, he knew she needed someone that wouldn't throw their entire basis of faith onto her.

She needed a friend. Something she had never really had in her clan. Something that he sorely lacked since Kinloch.

“Do you ever wonder, Inquisitor?” She hummed. “Where you might've ended up if you hadn't been sent to the Conclave?”

She shrugged and ate more of her steak. “I would hope that another would've become the Inquisitor, but I suppose nothing would've been much different for me. If I hadn't been sent, it might've been another. The Keeper's apprentice or another of the Between.” She ate a vegetable. “If it had been the apprentice, another would've been chosen. Might've been me, but I doubt it.” She tilted her head. “Are you thinking about the Red Templars again?”

His brow lifted and he shook his head. “No, actually. I...” It hadn't been that long since they had returned from Therinfal. “I was just thinking how the catalyst for this change was a simple task of learning about the decision at the Conclave.” He carved off another piece of meat. “You don't think you would've joined the Inquisition of your own accord?”

She wet her lips. “To what end? Travel across the Waking Sea to join a Chantry-led force that might've been unsuccessful, that might've been crushed by Corypheus at Haven.” His eyes dropped. That had been his only idea. “Who knows, maybe Corypheus succeeds at the Conclave without me and this all becomes moot.”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Rather pessimistic.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, Creators... I suppose it is. I just... was trying to cover every possibility.” He stabbed a bit of vegetables. "You said you had family the last time we spoke." Liandra ate a potato now. "Two sisters and a brother?"  
  
Cullen worked on his potatoes and vegetables. "Yes. Though I don't suppose three siblings is that much when you had a whole clan."  
  
Liandra shrugged. "I got along with the other children fine, but once I was discovered to be touched by the Fade, I was taken away from my parents and my friends. I was a mage. The hunters had to keep an eye on me, the Keeper had to train me to control my powers. I had to be evaluated for possible apprenticeship. Once I was able to survive in the wilds on my own, I took off as frequently as possible. I preferred being among the trees, the solitude and silence. The hunters didn't like that very much."  
  
He frowned. The hunters of the clan watched them much like the Templars. “That doesn't sound much better than the Circle.”

She shrugged. “I never wanted to rebel, so it can't have been all bad.”

He cut off another cube of meat. “Why didn't you?” He popped the cube of heaven into his lips.

Her eyes fell on the meal. “I... Found something that worked for me. I had some semblance of freedom, I knew what my limits were, I knew how to get around the rules. I bent a few to keep myself happy, but I was always aware. We were all treated fairly well until the Keeper chose an apprentice. I guess I never really thought about how I was treated until I had already gotten my vallaslin. And by then, I understood.”

He thought back to all the crying children that were hauled in by massive Templars in full armor, two or more at a time to retrieve a child. The children were beaten, bled, and locked in a cell until an Enchanter could come explain to the child how to control their powers. And even then, the beatings didn't end, the watching. The children didn't understand, terrified by their own powers. There were so many that had accidentally set someone on fire because they had been in an argument and their power chose that particular way to manifest. The terror and fear only made things worse.

“Mages have a lot to fear.” The words had fallen from his lips, a voice to sum up the thoughts.

She stabbed a potato on her fork. “We can at least feel and understand our power at some point. The rest of the world fears more because they can't.” The potato passed her lips, and he wished he could, too.

He cleared his throat and tilted his head. “You said you understood after you got your... _vallaslin_?”

Her right hand released her fork and lifted to her face, to the purple swirls that marked her. “Oh, you don't know the word? It's the tattoos Dalish elves get inscribed on their face. You have to reach a certain age and perform the rite before you can receive one.”

He tilted his head. Solas must’ve been Dalish, but he didn’t have one. “What do they mean? I’ve seen different designs before.”

She smiled slightly. “We may choose our own. They are representative of the God or Goddess we follow. For Hunters it can be Andruil, the Goddess of the Hunt. For myself, I chose Sylaise, the Goddess of the Hearth.”

"Naturally. For your love of cooking." He skewered a carrot. “If I may, what is the rite?” Even the vegetables were a perfect consistency.

“You have to reach a certain age and your pain threshold is then tested every year until you no longer cry. Depending on what you have chosen as your position in the clan, the rite is different. For me, I had to solve a riddle that led me to a beast that I had to fight alone. I passed, eventually, but it left me with a few scars.” His chin lifted. “If you cry out in pain or tears enter your eyes while the tattoo is being inscribed, you cannot be recognized as an adult.”

He leaned forward, intrigued. “What was the riddle?”

She chuckled. “I don't recall now. It was near ten years ago now.” She grabbed another roll. “The beast was a varterral, if you were wondering.”

He chuckled and nodded. “I was, actually. That sounds awful. I've heard of varterrals before in Kirkwall. Hawke and her companions fought one as well.”

The Inquisitor ripped off a piece of her bread. “What about your scar?”

He absently traced the object of her query. "It was in Kirkwall. Meredith had somehow awakened the statues in the courtyard, using them to attack Hawke. Upon seeing the full extent of the Knight-Commander's insanity, I gave the order to assist Hawke. I discovered that day just how incredibly resilient bronze is. The Templars attacks did little to damage the blasted things. But we at least kept their weapons drawn from Hawke as she fought the monster Meredith had become. As a result, I earned this scar. Among others."  
  
She coughed slightly around her bread. "Others?"  
  
He felt the heat rise on his cheeks. "Ah, yes." He cleared his throat. The burning had returned. He returned to his dinner.

"Thank you for coming, Commander.” Her voice was soft, apprehensive.

He chuckled and motioned at the dinner. “I should be thanking you, Inquisitor! This meal is exquisite.” He blinked slightly. “Though, I have to ask; Why make this dinner for just the two of us?”

Her jaw tensed, her eyes moving over the dinner. “I should be returning to the field soon. This may be our last chance to partake of a... _distraction_.” Her hands moved to rest on the table.“I... was also afraid the others would mock me. They have this view of me as their Captain out in the field and I was worried they might... think less of me if they knew this about me.”

His hand slowly lowered to rest on the table. He swallowed the bite he had been chewing and his left hand moved toward hers. The Inquisitor was sharing this secret with him. A piece of herself that she refused to share with anyone else. This was a passion of hers, a passion she felt the need to keep hidden. Like so many other parts of herself. And yet it was _him_ that she shared them with. He wasn't sure what he had ever done to garner this much faith from her, but he was determined not to disappoint her.

“I could never think less of you, Inquisitor.” He wanted to utter her name again, as he had when she had stumbled through the Fade to get to the Inquisition's camp in the mountains.

She had been so fragile. He had been so terrified. The only reason he had left her was because the healers had no room to work. Solas had sent him away so that he might contain the power sparking on her hand. He had promised to leave her side only if he would be the first one notified upon her return to consciousness.

Her hand lifted off the table, away from his, to return to her dinner. “Thank you, Commander.” He realized with a heavy heart that he wanted to hear her say his name again. “I doubt if you had some kind of terrible secret hobby, I could think less of you either.”

He chuckled absently and poked a few vegetables. “You're too kind, Inquisitor. I must admit I'm fairly boring. I spend so much of my time working that I barely have time for anything else.”

Her bright green eyes lifted to him. “I don't think you're boring. What about when you were a youngling? You must've had time then.”  
  
“I am remiss to admit, but my brother and I loved to prank my sister. She was a terror because she was the eldest.” He clapped his hands, an odd sensation without his ubiquitous gloves. "Oh, Mia had this doll that she absolutely adored. She carted that thing around absolutely everywhere and demanded that we leave it and her room alone. We even tried to touch it and she lost her mind." He picked up his roll. "So one night, while she was asleep, my brother and I stole it away and cut off all it's hair, drew a mustache on it, and put it back in her room. We called it Princess Captain for weeks!" He chuckled. "She cried and cried at first, but at some point she must've seen it as an inspiration. When my mother offered to mend it after her and my father scolded us, Mia declined."

The Inquisitor giggled slightly and shook her head. “You're terrible! At least it wasn't a total disaster.” She stabbed a carrot and cauliflower and moved them to her lips. “I couldn't help but notice that you don't mention your youngest sister very often. Was she born shortly before you joined the Templars?”

His smile faded. He hadn't thought about his youngest sister for some time. He tried so hard to keep her fate from his mind, to kindle the hope that she was alive and safe and happy somewhere. “She... we got along much better than Mia and I did. But she... was taken from us at a young age.”

The Inquisitor's ears flattened back. “Commander, I'm so sorry.”

He offered her a strained smile. “She... never found her way back to the rest of our family. I haven't heard from her in some time. I can only hope she found somewhere safe to avoid the war.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment, then she nodded. “Was she kidnapped?”

He remembered the night the water burned, the morning the Templars came to explain what was happening. He poured himself more milk. “In a word.”

She pushed her plate away. “Did you get her back?”

He drank a bit of his milk. “You could say that...”

Her brow furrowed and she tilted her head. “You're being very evasive, Commander. Is this not something you wish to discuss?”

He looked down to the plate. He had been able to clear most of it while they talked, while they shared secrets. He felt the scars, the headache, the tightness in his throat. “Not... at present. It's-”

Her eyes wandered over his form. “Painful. I understand, Commander.” Her smile was tight. “We all have painful memories to endure.”

He nodded slowly. He didn't deserve her kindness. He didn't deserve her friendship. She shared her secrets, her fears with him, and whenever she asked him to do the same, he raised his armor against her. His leg started to shake under the table as the burn worked its way down his calf. The movement must've shaken the floorboards too much, causing his sword to shift just enough to clatter to the floor.

The noise forced both Cullen and the Inquisitor to turn to it. His armor rested beside it, the vambraces and pauldrons, the chestplate and his mane of fur. She chuckled slightly as he turned back around and made some comment about the mood being tense. He furrowed his brow.

“She was taken by Templars.” The words had escaped him before he had even registered thinking them.

Her expression froze for a moment. “Who...?”

He looked to the vegetables and reached across to grab the bowl they rested in. He spooned himself out a bit more onto the plate and returned the serving bowl to its place. He moved the vegetables around on his plate, feeling the silence extend between them. She slowly returned to her dinner. “My youngest sister. She was a mage. She was taken from us at a young age because she set the lake on fire.”

The fork was placed gently on the plate. The food she was chewing was swallowed. She lifted her eyes to him. He felt it, the comfort, the curiosity, the sorrow. “Did anyone get hurt? Was _she_ all right?”

He shook his head. “Thankfully no one was harmed. We got her calmed down and she was taken inside. A message was sent to the Templars stationed in town that she should be taken to the Circle. The next morning, the Templars came and she was allowed to pack up a few things to take with her. Our parents thought it would be best for her to learn how to control her powers.”

The Inquisitor tilted her head. “That was rather abrupt. Just handing her over so quickly?”

He took a swig of his milk. “Either we alerted the Templars and gave her willingly, or they would've taken her by force...” He could still hear the sobs as his youngest sister was taken from him. “Because we gave her willingly, I assumed all Templars were like the ones that took her. It was part of what drove me to the Order. Protecting the innocent, saving the mages from themselves... Honor, justice.” He couldn't stop them now, the words filled him, spilled out despite his efforts to prevent them. The scars burned less as more words filled the space between them. “I joined the Order because I wanted to _help_ people, to save them, to serve them. What I got instead was _hate_ and mistrust and vitriol.” He lifted his eyes to her. “I'm sorry. I'm ruining this wonderful dinner.”

Her brow turned hard for a moment, the Spitfire lighting her eyes. She wanted to admonish him, he could see it. But he also knew where it came from. “Commander-”

He shook his head. The burn in his leg had faded. “That's all right, Inquisitor. It's not something I wish to dwell on.” He grabbed at the carafe of milk to refill his glass. “Perhaps you could shed some light on how you learned about my beverage preference?”

Her brow remained furrowed, but she allowed him the subject change, however wary of it. “My new found position as Inquisitor has loosened a lot of tongues.”

He arched a brow. “You've been planning this dinner for some time, haven't you?”

She swallowed hard and moved the vegetables around on her plate. “Maybe.” She grabbed her glass.

He felt the smile tug at his scar. He knew he didn't deserve it, the scars reminded him. But he wasn't going to let himself ruin the rest of her night. A night she had worked so hard to make special.


	7. Cover the Men

Liandra had never been allowed to ride a halla back in her clan. Her being touched by the Fade spooked the elves enough, Creators forbid they let her anywhere near the halla. The Inquisition had no such quandaries. Master Dennet had been able to tame any mountable animal, regardless of the rider. She was thankful to not have to ride in one of the wagons as their forces made their way to Adamant Keep.

She found a nice canter beside the wagon, anyway. Most of her Inner Circle lingered in the same place, trading stories, jokes, barbs, and the occasional flirt. A few comments were made about Liandra's name being similar to Hawke's mother's name. The story swapping was at Varric's insistence, but none of the gathered objected. Liandra found herself missing the company of Leliana and Josie as the road got longer, though she was sure they would not feel the same.

The Commander had found his way to the wagon, officially to deliver a report, to verify that the plan was still understood so that the siege went as smoothly as possible. But he had stuck around and shared a few anecdotes as well. Liandra couldn't stop herself from ribbing him about the shape of the battering rams, while he countered that she should stay away from the trebuchets.

The Commander lingered on the hill overlooking Adamant with the trebuchets. An order was given to light the payloads and fire. As they arced through the sky, he nodded to Liandra. She lifted her staff, sending a bit of magic to make the skull at the end glow, and her squadron moved forward. There was a platoon already ahead, pushing back the Grey Warden mages and their demons on the bridge that led to the door at the back of the keep. The front of the keep was guarded by a drawbridge.

As she escorted the battering rams to the doors, she watched the siege ladders lifted by groups of soldiers. The men riding the tops held on by one hand, the other waving a sword. Her chest clenched at every soldier that fell, every soldier than lost their grip to fatigue or an arrow.

A thud alerted her to the rocks that were being thrown at the shieldbearers protecting the battering rams. She glanced to the warrior that held his shield, the man the Commander had admonished for not blocking in Haven. She started to move forward, to raise her staff, muttering the incantation for a barrier, when an arrow whistled past her.

Blood spattered against her cheek as the arrow penetrated the man beside her. She shrieked, startled. She dropped to her knees and focused her magic into her hand, holding it over the arrow wound. Her staff was dropped so that she could use her hand to yank the arrow out. The soldier growled in pain, holding up his other arm, the one that bore the shield, and protected her from another arrow. An understanding passed between them as she mended the wound in the man's shoulder.

Her work done, she recovered her staff and helped the man to his feet. They jogged ahead to return to their positions by the ram. Geoff, that was the soldier's name. And the man in front of him, Liam. She finished her incantation and watched the gentle blue wisps surround the men around her.

The battering rams breached Adamant's massive doors, wood splintering towards the Inquisition's troops. Liandra made sure to craft a shield around them to prevent unnecessary injury. She staggered slightly as the rocks the Wardens tossed down impacted her shield. As the splinters fell, a roar rose through the soldiers and they ran inside. Liandra heard the clang of swords and maces on shields, steel deflected with steel, chains from flails jingling together. The smell of blood, of fires, of rot and lilies on the demons filled her nostrils.

The rest of her Inner Circle followed the troops in in their own way. Varric and Sera climbed onto the abandoned battering ram and used it to shoot the attacking Wardens from a higher vantage point. Varric filled the courtyard with bolts while Sera defended them from the Wardens on the ramparts. Cassandra and Blackwall joined the rest of the shieldbearers to form a phalanx.

Alistair heaved a heavy sigh beside her and drew his sword. Liandra placed a hand on his elbow. “You don't have to be here, Warden.”

He shook his head. “The mages here are no longer Wardens, but they once were. It should be a Warden that ends their suffering.”

“Inquisitor!” The Commander jogged up beside her. The rest of the Inner Circle headed into the fray. “You have your way in. Best make use of it. The rest of the Inquisition's forces will do their best to keep the main host of demons occupied.” He took a breath, glancing up as another payload impacted the walls. “I just hope we can hold out long enough.”

Liandra could see the worry wrinkling his brow. “Don't take any unnecessary risks, Commander. Keep the army safe.”

A shriek carried from the battlements. Liandra, Alistair, and the Commander all turned toward it. An Inquisition soldier fell, crashing to the ground beside them. Liandra rushed to the body, but they were already gone. The Commander growled behind her.

“There's too many demons on the ramparts! The men can't get a foothold. Hawke was supposed to be assisting them. Maker, I hope she's all right.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “If you could-”

Liandra stood quickly. He didn't have to ask. These were her men, her women, her troops. They were volunteers, pilgrims, trainees. They were here because of her decision, and she would be damned if she didn't do everything in her power to save them. “You keep the men and women safe outside of these walls, Commander, and I will protect them inside.”

The Commander nodded to her and took a step back. “Warden Alistair will guard your back in my stead.” The men shared a nod as Alistair adjusted his shield on his arm. “I would remind you not to take unnecessary risks as well, Inquisitor.”

The Inner Circle rushed up the stairs toward the ramparts. A group of demons and Inquisition soldiers surrounded a group of Wardens. One of the Wardens caught sight of Alistair and shouted for help.

“Warden Alistair! What is going on?” His voice was frantic, muffled under a massive, winged helmet.

One word from Cole and Cassandra dropped to her knee to allow the spirit an opening. Cole leapt through the opening and rolled, disappearing from sight. A moment later, black sprayed from the throat of an attacking demon.

Once the demons were dispatched, the Inquisition turned on the Wardens. “Stop!” Liandra's voice carried through the soldiers. Every man and woman tensed, but followed her order. “You Grey Wardens are uncorrupted?”

The helmet was pulled off the Warden. “Uncorrupted?”

Alistair took a step forward. “Have you noticed strange things happening in the keep lately?”

The man nodded, smoothing his hair with a shaking hand. “Many of the warriors and rogues have gone missing. The mages walk around as if in a daze.”

Liandra set her jaw. These Wardens were like Barris and the uncorrupted Templars. They did not have to die for the mistakes of their leaders. “Get yourselves somewhere safe. Inquisition!” The soldiers turned to her. “This is a battlefield, your friends won't know these Wardens are not our enemy. Defend them, keep them safe.”

Alistair furrowed his brow. “You're sparing them?”

Liandra nodded and turned away. More of her soldiers needed help.

A roar alerted them to a Pride demon wandering the ramparts. Liandra caught Hawke's magic crackling through the air, heard the shouts of more of her men. Solas covered the party in a barrier, Liandra downing a lyrium potion with a few swallows. She felt her gut reject the blue glow and swallowed hard.

Cassandra, Alistair, and Blackwall held their shields together against an orb of lighting from the Pride demon. A shout, a thumping of weapon on stone, and Cassandra and Blackwall moved to the side. The Iron Bull charged through the phalanx. A group of Warden mages and their demons waited on the other side for him. He shifted his grip on his greatsword, angled his foot, and started the whirlwind of blades.

For every Warden that fell, Dorian was there to conscript them into service for the Inquisition. Liandra busied herself to provide support for the others, dispelling the barriers of the despair demons and transferring the magic to Vivienne. The First Enchanter of Montsimmard slashed at the Pride demon with her magical blade.

As the Pride demon fell, Liandra could feel it warp back toward the center of the Keep. Hawke panted heavily and limped toward her. “You didn't have to do that, I totally had it at my mercy.”

Liandra smirked and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. Her magic stores were low, so she offered the woman a health potion instead. “Here.”

Katerina accepted the bottle and drank the red liquid slowly. Once the bottle was empty, she offered it back to Liandra. “Now that this area is secure, I should come with you.”

Liandra heard the shriek of a shade further down the ramparts. “Stay here for a bit longer. Keep the men and women safe.”

She could see the defiance flash in the Champion's eyes. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

The siege had gone mostly according to plan until Liandra had reached the center of the keep. The veil was thinnest here, the presence of demons the strongest. The sick and sweet smell of demons, of the Fade, overpowered the smell of blood and ash. She heard Alistair growl and rush toward the mages holding open an ever growing rift.

“Ah, Inquisitor. You made it.” Erimond turned his greasy eyes on Clarel. “We are out of time, Clarel. We have no time to stand on ceremony. Bring her.”

Clarel narrowed her eyes at the Tevinter. “These men and women are giving their lives, Magister. That might mean little in Tevinter, but for the Wardens, it is a Sacred Duty.”

Alistair shook his head. An elven girl appeared behind the Magister and Clarel. Liandra narrowed her eyes; she looked familiar. Jana. She was the girl in Crestwood that the Wardens hunting Alistair had saved. Liandra had supported the young elf's decision to join the Wardens.

That was before she knew what had happened. Before she knew what they had become. How could she have known?

Clarel ripped the dagger across Jana's throat. Blood sprayed forward as Jana's eyes grew wide for a moment, then closed slowly. Her body fell, limp. Liandra's staff felt heavier in her hands as the blood lifted, floated into the portal at the center of the keep. It was her fault. Her stomach churned and she swallowed hard. Too many lives were lost because of her decisions.

“Clarel! Stop this!” She had to get through. Maybe she could stop any more lives being lost.

“Stop what? Erimond took a step forward. “Fighting the Blight? Keeping the world safe from Darkspawn?” Clarel nodded behind him. “The ritual may require blood sacrifice, but that is because blood magic is the only magic strong enough. Hate me for it if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

Clarel took a step forward. “We make the sacrifices no one else will! Our warriors die proudly for a world that will  _never_  thank them!”

Alistair growled. “The Grey Wardens are more than just sacrifice, Commander. Those warriors give their lives to defend the people against the Blight. Not so that your Tevinter can bind our mages to demons, to Corypheus!”

The color drained from Clarel's face. “Corypheus...?” She shook her head. “But... he's dead.” Her voice could barely be heard over the din of the siege.

Erimond grabbed her shoulder. “These people will say  _anything_  to shake your confidence, Clarel.”

Hawke moved forward. “Please, Clarel. I've seen more than my fair share of blood magic. It is never worth the cost!”

The Warden-Commander lifted hand to her forehead. Liandra felt the oppressive presence of a demon stretching through the keep, caressing the Magister and the Warden-Commander. Clarel dropped her hand. “Bring it through.”

A group of Warden mages gathered their magic, pooled it together, and pushed it toward the rift. A contingent of other Wardens drew their weapons, dropping into stances, ready to defend their vulnerable allies. Alistair drew his weapon. Liandra heard a few of the Inner Circle draw theirs behind her. She was about to step forward, to stop him, when Blackwall placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Wardens!” His voice was a low rumble, but no less commanding of their attention. “You may not know me, but you may have heard my name, Warden Blackwall. Like you, I've given my life to serve the Grey Wardens.” Alistair turned to him, brow furrowed. “The first time I wore the Warden's armor, I felt like I finally belonged. I was part of something honorable, something with a purpose.” Several of the opposing Wardens nodded. “I know how good that feels, to finally have a purpose. How safe. But fighting and dying here today won't stop the Blight. If you want to stop the Blight, kill that bastard up there!” He pointed sharply at Erimond. Liandra smirked as several Wardens turned. “His master is the living embodiment of the Blight's corruption.”

Liandra felt the mood shift. Clarel's brow furrowed, her wary gaze turned on the greasy Tevinter beside her. Liandra felt the magic tearing at the rift falter. He was losing his grip on the Wardens.

But the Magister would not give in so easily. “Clarel, you are the only one worthy of this demon's strength. Only you can bind it and use it to serve you. We've come so far, Clarel. Don't let this charlatan turn you away from your purpose.”

Clarel glanced to Liandra. Liandra shook her head. “Perhaps we should test the truth of these charges.” Clarel turned back to Erimond. “To avoid more bloodshed.”

Erimond growled and tapped his staff on the stone floor. “Or  _perhaps_  I should bring in a more reliable ally.”

Her hand sparked, shooting fire up her left arm. She hadn't been expecting it, a shriek escaping her that forced Alistair to spin on her, Blackwall's hand finding her shoulder again. Solas appeared on her left, lifting her hand to check it.

A roar tore through the keep. Liandra recognized that roar. She shared a glance with Solas. Where the Archdemon was, Corypheus was probably not far behind.

The red lyrium breath shattered through the center of the keep, scattering the gathered Wardens and Liandra's troops. She heard a growl that sounded suspiciously like Bull, and turned toward it. An explosion had lodged shrapnel over his chest. His normally grey skin was peppered with little bloody spots. Dorian was immediately at the Qunari's side with a harsh word tempered by an attempt at healing.

Varric had yanked Hawke out of the way, but he had wounded his leg by doing so. Cassandra and Hawke helped the dwarf into a sitting position. Hawke rubbed her hands together, blue light filling the space between them.

“Inquisitor!” It was Alistair's voice. He motioned toward the Archdemon as it landed on one of the parapets.

She growled and flexed her left hand. “Yes, I see it, Warden! What do you expect me to do?”

Lightning crackled through the air, impacting the Archdemon. Clarel held her hand toward the Archdemon. She was fighting it. It had worked.

Another roar and the Archdemon took to the sky. Red lyrium shattered over the stone tile between Clarel and Erimond. The Magister took the opportunity to flee. Clarel rushed forward to address her Wardens. “Help the Inquisitor!”

Liandra looked to the Wardens. The mages continued to pour their magic into the rift, but the group surrounding them looked too confused to act. “Wardens, you don't have to make this any harder. Surrender, and you will not be harmed.” Several of the Wardens gathered sheathed their weapons while others simply dropped them to the ground. “Good. Inquisition!” The soldiers in the courtyard looked to her. “Tell any others that make it here not to harm them. They have surrendered.”

Alistair motioned to the mages. “What about them?”

Liandra took a breath. “We need to follow Erimond and Clarel.” She caught movement behind Alistair and leaned around him.

Cole had moved his way toward the Wardens, looking them over with curiosity. She didn't have time for this. She lifted her left hand, still sparking, and nudged Alistair aside. Cole raised a hand to the shoulder of one of the mages. After a moment, the mage fell.

“Cole!” The hat turned to her. “What are you doing?”

The hat lowered slightly, shrouding his face. “Helping.” He moved to another mage and the same thing happened.

“Inquisitor, Erimond is getting away!” Hawke motioned toward a hall that lead to the battlements.

The magic dissipated around them. Liandra looked to Cole, to the mages all crumpled to the stone floor in a circle around the rift. “Come on, let's go!”

Alistair threw himself on the demons that blocked their path. Liandra did her best to prevent fatalities among her people and the Wardens. Clarel had made a mistake, but she was working to correct it now. The Wardens still had to be told. There was no need for more bloodshed, not if Liandra could stop it.

The Archdemon pursued them through the keep. Red lyrium shattered around them as they found demons, rescued Wardens. She heard the wingbeats beside them, trying to calculate where the breath would fall.

Rocks impacted with her face, with her hands. The Archdemon had crashed through the battlements, teeth and claw and fury blocking their path. Bull roared right back at the Archdemon while Cassandra held up her shield. Sera shrieked behind her, a stark contrast to Vivienne as she ran forward, magical blade drawn back.

Liandra's mark sparked again, forcing her arm to shake. In this condition, so close to Corypheus's corruption, it was too difficult for her to use. She would have to discuss it at length later with Solas.

It only took a few slashes for the Archdemon to lose its grip. Liandra ran past the damage, searching for the rest of her party. They had been held up by another pack of shades. They beckoned for her.

Erimond had finally reached the end of his escape route. The drawbridge's support extended over the chasm, leaving no more walkway for the Magister to use. He turned on Clarel. Liandra watched as the Magister tossed weak fireballs at Clarel, watched as Clarel guarded herself with a magical barrier and marched toward him.

“You destroyed the Grey Wardens!” There was fury lining her voice.

Erimond backed up to the edge. Clarel summoned a fist of stone and threw it into the Magister. His staff clattered over the edge as he fell to the stone. Clarel moved around him, back to the edge.

Liandra jogged closer. “Clarel!”

Erimond rolled over, his arms wobbling. “You did that yourself, you stupid  _bitch_.” He fell back, lying on the ground. “All I did was dangle a bit of power before you. You couldn't  _wait_  to get your hands bloody.”

Liandra watched the rage shift on Clarel's face. The Grey Warden-Commander gripped her staff with both hands. Lightning crackled at the end and she swung it. Erimond scraped across the stone toward Liandra.

She looked up to the Warden-Commander as she closed the distance between them. “Clarel, that's enough!”

Erimond whimpered, curled into a fetal position. “You could've served a new god.”

Clarel narrowed her eyes. “I will  _never_  serve the Blight.”

Liandra moved to take a step forward. Alistair held his shield out to block her advance. “Ward-”

Blood spattered around the tile as the keep shook under the weight of the Archdemon. Clarel screamed from inside the mouth of the dragon for a moment. Liandra felt her fingers start to shake. The Archdemon flew up, circled around, and Liandra kept her eyes on it. It swung it's head from side to side, like a cat making sure its prey was dead. But rather than swallow the Warden-Commander, it tossed her body in front of her. More deaths, more bloodshed.

Clarel coughed, blood tinting the stone below her. Liandra gasped. “Clarel!” The ground shook and she tore her eyes back to the Archdemon.

“Kinda wish Curly were here to come up with a plan.” Varric primed Bianca.

Liandra glanced back to him. “The Commander's last plan to deal with this dragon involved suicide.”

“We can fight it.” Cassandra readied her shield.

Alistair shook his head. “It took the full support of every faction in Ferelden to take out the last one ten years ago.”

Liandra backed away as the Archdemon advanced. It had them cornered, backs to a drop-off. She watched Erimond crawl under the dragon. “ _Fenedhis!_  Erimond is getting away again.”

Alistair chuckled darkly. “I'm sure if you ask nicely, the Archdemon will move.”

Clarel coughed again, crawling toward them. Liandra noticed her lips moving, watched as the blood pooled around her. She wouldn't last much longer.

“In war, victory.” Liandra's ears flattened against her braids. “In peace, vigilance.” She felt the magic pooling in Clarel's hand.

“Clarel, don't-”

Just as the dragon jumped, Clarel threw her magic into it. Liandra summoned a gust to push her companions aside as the dragon's lunge turned into a body slam. It roared, angry at the loss of its prey, and spread its wings as it fell into the chasm.

As everyone started to get to their feet, she heard the familiar scratch of rock falling away. She turned to the others and motioned for them to run.

“Inquisitor!” Alistair's voice was lined with terror. She called upon Dorian to help her pull the Warden back over the ledge.

She glanced over her shoulder. They would never be able to outrun the collapse. As the ground fell out from under her, she screamed. Her hand sparked again, and she pushed her magic into it, something to calm it. She had to do something. She had done it before, fallen from a height. Wind, something to slow her descent,  _their_  descent. Anything to save them. Anything to see him again.


	8. Fight the Fear

She had never been to this part of the Fade, never been inside it physically, and yet it felt familiar somehow. It was a twisted mirror of reality, a massive tear in the Veil glowing in the sky.

But now that she was here, she knew she had to escape. They all had to get out, return to Adamant, warn the others, fight the Archdemon. Liandra turned around to check on her companions. Solas and Cole were as equally awed and terrified as she expected. Alistair and Hawke had a surprising amount of control over it.

The last time Liandra had entered the Fade had been at the Conclave. She had been rescued by a woman, deposited in the burning crater that used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She swallowed hard. Had something similar happened at Adamant? Would the Inner Circle, Hawke, and Warden Alistair be the only survivors?

Her gloves creaked as they balled into fists. Panic was taking over her limbs. The Inquisition's army, all those pilgrims and volunteers, dead. All those Grey Wardens, both corrupted and the just, dead. Tears stung at the edges of her eyes, her stomach churning. She could feel the sick rising in her throat and swallowed it down. The Commander would be dead as well.

The splish of Hawke moving through the shallow water beside her broke her from her fears. Fear. “That demon. What did it feel like to you Messere Hawke?”

“Kat, or Katerina.” She fell into step beside Liandra. “I... thought I felt fear?”

Varric spun around, his head on a swivel to take in the Fadescape around him. Liandra moved closer to him; dwarves did not dream, had never entered the Fade. It must be terrifying for him. “That can't be right, you're not afraid of anything.”

Katerina chuckled, one hand finding the dwarf's shoulder. “Not even an angry Fenris.” Hawke and Varric shared a chuckle.

Liandra furrowed her brow at the inside joke, but smiled uneasily all the same. “Pride, despair, desire, shades, terror. I've felt them all. This doesn't feel like any of them. What about you, Solas?”

The bald elf tapped his staff in a bit of water, testing the depths. “I believe you are correct, lethallan. Fear seems to be the most likely culprit.”

“You would be correct, Inquisitor, Champion, Ancient One.”

The party froze at the voice, Bull unsheathing his massive weapon, Varric and Sera priming their bows. It was Cassandra that took a step forward.

“Divine Justinia...? Most Holy?” Cassandra's eyebrows had lifted almost to her hairline.

Liandra placed a hand on Cassandra's shoulder. She tried to feel out the Divine, searching for anything that would indicate if she were a demon or a spirit. The Fear demon's presence was too strong. “This is the Fade, Cassandra. She is most likely a demon herself.”

“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand in the Fade yourselves. Alive.” The older woman smiled sadly. Liandra narrowed her eyes, trying to wade through the presence of the Fear demon. The woman focused on her and shook her head. “Proving my existence as human or demon or spirit would require time we do not have. Just know that I am here to help you.”

“And what do you get in exchange for your altruism, Divine?” Liandra tilted her head. It was always safer to be wary in the Fade. She was reminded of her meeting with Cole.

“I can pass through the Fade knowing that I leave the world in capable hands.” The Divine motioned to the Inner Circle.

Cassandra took a step forward, away from Liandra. “We will accept your help, Divine.”

Liandra pressed her lips together. Perhaps it was for the best that the decision was made by someone else. “Yes, I don't suppose we have any other choice.”

Her hand sparked, a scream slicing through her throat. This pain she recognized. When Corypheus had attacked Haven. She clutched at her left wrist, her staff splashing into the shallow water beside her. How many were lost in Haven? That had been her fault as well. So many dead. Why her? Why did she survive? Why had she been chosen to become the Inquisitor? So many others were more qualified.

The Divine gestured toward a group of Wraiths. “Destroy the evils guarding your memories and you will know what has happened.”

The Wraiths were easily dispatched and Liandra touched the small orbs of energy left in their wake. Each one was absorbed into her mark. As the last filtered into her hand, the Anchor sparked and glowed.

Flashes tore through her mind, of the large hall in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, of a middle-aged man with short brown hair and charming green eyes. Of the blood that dripped onto the stones, of his body writhing in pain, held by Grey Warden mages.

As she came back to her senses, the sickeningly sweet smell of the Fade around her filled her nostrils. Her back rested against something stiff, hands on her shoulders. The touch was soothing. Terror ripped through her; had the Commander been pulled into the Fade?

“Are you all right, Inquisitor?” Alistair's voice drifted down to her from the much taller Warden. She relaxed slightly.

She shook her head, trying to shake off the fires that burned through her veins. She must've fallen to her knees as the memories ripped through her. She lifted a hand to pat his on her shoulder. “Thank you, Warden. I'm all right.” She recovered her staff and Alistair helped her to her feet. Why had she been reminded of the Commander, of his care, of his soothing touch? Her mouth went dry. She prayed the Archdemon had not lingered after their fall.

The Divine appeared at the path that led forward. “Be careful, Inquisitor. The demon that controls this area of the Fade feeds off fear. It serves Corypheus, providing nightmares that are forgotten upon waking. It feeds off the memories of terror and darkness. The nightmare it created for the Grey Wardens, the false Calling, is its doing.”

Alistair's weapon rattled at his side. “I'd like to have a few words with this  _nightmare_  about that.”

The Divine nodded to him, a warm smile washing over the group. “You will have your chance, Brave Warden.”

The group continued through the Fadescape, dispatched another set of demons and Liandra was granted another portion of her memory.

'Regalyan D'Marcall.' The memory flashed back to him writhing in agony. The Divine knocked the orb out of Corypheus's hand for Liandra to catch. The creature tried to bargain with her, and then another explosion tore the Temple apart.

When they were deposited back into the Fade from Liandra's memory, she heard a strangled sob. She looked to Hawke, to Vivienne, Sera. When her eyes fell on Cassandra, she was stunned. The Lady Seeker was on her knees in the shallow water, staring ahead at the spot that Regalyan had writhed. Her sword and shield had been dropped at her sides, the ripples still upsetting the water.

Varric lingered near the Seeker, sharing a worried glance with Liandra as she moved closer. “Cassandra...?”

“I knew he died at the Conclave, but... Oh my sweet Regalyan...” Her voice was small, like a little girl. Liandra balked at the anguish flowing from the Seeker, the name Antony whispered on the tongues of demons.

It was Varric's hand that touched the Seeker's shoulder. “Come on, Seeker. I'm sure he didn't sacrifice himself to see you cry.”

Cassandra growled and swiped at him. Her eyes were red with stifled tears, but her rage not quenched in the least. “If you had just given Hawke to me, he might not have had to sacrifice himself at all!” She chuckled sardonically. “To think, I believed you, Varric. If I had just been more wary of your  _lies_ , maybe I could've been able to save all those people at the Conclave. The divine would still be alive.”

Varric shook his head, brow furrowing. He growled slightly. “We talked about this already, Seeker. If I had told you where Hawke was, we would  _all_  be charred remains at the Temple.” He motioned to Hawke. “She is alive, with us right now thanks to my resisting your interrogation tactics!”

“Varric.” The utterance of his name caused the dwarf's back to straighten. He sighed heavily and shook his head. Liandra motioned for Varric to move to safety and crouched in front of the Seeker. Fighting with her would get them nowhere. She was in pain. “Cassandra, I'm very sorry for your loss. But he sacrificed himself in hopes of saving me so that I could get to you. He wanted to save  _you_. He had faith in you. Faith that you would be strong and capable enough to fix whatever happened there. He wouldn't want you falling to pieces.” The Seeker's eyebrows knit, filling with more tears that did not fall. Her jaw set, fighting the anguish. “Look around you, Cassandra. We're in the Fade, in the realm of a demon feeding on your insecurities and fears.” Liandra grabbed the Seeker's armored gloves. “Don't let the demon win, Cassandra. The Divine didn't.”

Cassandra looked down to the water. Liandra could feel the sorrow, rage, despair, fear fade away. The Seeker swallowed a few times to dislodge the tears. Liandra offered her a smile. She knew Cassandra had relations before, they had talked about it after Liandra had read  _Swords and Shields_. But Cassandra had been rather tight-lipped about the man's identity, about what exactly had happened. Just another retelling of a time in her life that she was not happy with. Cassandra had told her that she thought he had been at the Conclave, but the woman always held out hope. It was something that Liandra admired in her. But now she knew. Galyan was gone, killed trying to prevent catastrophe. It was a certainty that crushed Cassandra.

But Cassandra Pentaghast was strong. She would not give in to a demon, not give in to sorrow. She nodded to herself and wiped at her nose with a sniffle. She shared a nod with Liandra and both women stood. Liandra leaned down to help her gather her weapons.

Varric lingered behind her, his right fingers holding his left thumb. He took a step forward, extending a hand out. “Look, Seeker, once we get out of here, how about I help you write his story, huh?”

Cassandra wiped her eyes, the act steeling them into a hard gaze on the dwarf. “I... believe I would like that, Varric.”

Though she did not smile, Varric nodded. There was an understanding, an apology exchanged in the nod that Cassandra offered him. Bull moved forward and placed a hand on the Seeker's shoulder, a reminder that she was not alone.

The Divine led the party to a graveyard that extended as far as the eye could see. The tombstones constantly shifted, displaying different names, warping to different shapes. There was a monument or two that appeared and shifted. Blackwall tried to comfort Sera as she ran in place, the water splashing wildly around her feet.

The epitaphs on the headstones changed. Every so often the party would recognize their own name. A glance would be shared between them when their name was displayed, a nervous chuckle, a shrug that tried to appear nonchalant. Liandra caught Josephine's name, Vivienne, Blackwall.

_Cullen: Failure_

She swallowed hard. Of course he was afraid of failure, who wasn't? But their conversation before the siege ran through her mind. He was terrified of failing the Inquisition, of failing to maintain his sobriety. Her grip tightened on her staff. He had already failed the Templars, failed at Kinloch, at Kirkwall. He had almost failed at Haven.

_Liandra: Inquisitor_

She cleared her throat as her own name appeared in front of her. She glanced to the others to see if they had noticed. Only Alistair looked to her at her movement. “We should keep moving. There doesn't seem to be anything here.”

The Inner Circle agreed and they moved back through the Fadescape to take the other path. The fear had gripped her, and she held her staff with both hands, trying to calm the panic that shook them. Her role as Inquisitor had terrified her, but she had accepted it. She could see Solas, see the Commander's approval. She had needed to do it, the only one qualified. She had the Anchor, she was the Herald, she was Dalish, she was a mage. She was the only one. But how any had died because of her decisions? How many more would die? How many people depended on her, on her decisions? She had never been good enough for her clan, why was she good enough for the Inquisition?

As the party downed a pair of Pride demons, she felt her teeth chattering. She tried desperately to fight the fear as it gripped her throat, as her heart beat harder in her chest. The Inquisition's army had probably been defeated while they sloshed through shallow water. The Commander's lifeless eyes flashed in her mind, his face splattered with his own blood. Tears filled her eyes.

Cole's gentle touch found her shoulder and she blinked at him. His milky blue eyes bored into her. She panted and struggled to catch her breath. She wet her lips. Whatever he had done had worked. Her limbs stopped shaking, her heart calmed. She nodded to him with a weak smile. He returned it and let his hand fall away, retrieving his dagger from his back.

The last memory the Divine shared with her was of Liandra's escape. The spiders that chased her up the spire, the hand she offered, the sacrifice she made. Blackwall had caught her this time, his beard tickling her ears. They shared a giggle when she mentioned it to him.

The mystery of what happened at the Conclave had been solved. Thanks to the Divine. Spirit or not, the Divine had given her back her memories.

“Guess it wasn't Andraste that led you out of the Fade.” Alistair moved up behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Blood spatter, golden eyes, her name on his lips.

She focused on the Warden instead. “Just as I always suspected. Though... It was the Divine.” She looked up to the Divine, standing in a cave threshold. “You gave your life for me.” Sacrifice, just as Regalyan, just as the Commander, as so many others had for her. What was Liandra to inspire such sacrifice?

“This can't be the Divine. She died.” Katerina crossed her arms as she stepped up on the other side of Liandra.

The spirit's brow knit. “I'm sorry if I disappoint you.” Her eyes closed, light pouring through the lids, engulfing the Divine's form, forcing the party to cover their eyes. The Divine's silhouette lifted from the Fadescape, floating higher, the body of a woman with the Divine's hat.

Cassandra took a step forward. “Are you Justinia...? Did you linger here to help us?”

Liandra felt a smile wash over her, a strange warmth in her chest. The Divine's voice spilled from the being of light. “If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one.”

It was Hawke that piped up. “Regardless of what she is  _now_ , we know the Divine is dead, no thanks to the Grey Wardens.” Liandra felt the bitter accusation like daggers racing over her flesh.

Liandra turned on the Champion. Much like the mages, the Grey Wardens had been faced with an impossible choice. They were not blameless, but they had good intentions. “You still blame them?”

Alistair raised a hand, attempting to quell the argument. “Look, we can debate the depressing details when we get back to Adamant. Who knows how time passes in this awful place.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, both hands raising. “Oh yes, let us return to Adamant, where the Inquisition faces an  _army of demons raised by the Grey Wardens_.”

“If the Inquisition still lives...” The words had left Liandra before she could stop them.

Alistair threw his hands up, face contorting in rage. The emotion flowed from him, engulfing Liandra. “Is that what you're really saying? Terrible actions are only justified if they're  _your_  terrible actions. You tore Kirkwall apart and incited a mage rebellion! It was  _your_  friend that blew up the Chantry!”

Liandra growled, fueled by the emotion flowing from Warden and Champion. “Enough!” Hawke backed away, while Alistair put his hands on his hips. She turned on Alistair. “I will agree with Hawke that the Wardens need a bit more oversight.” She felt the shemlen mage nod and turned on her. “But we also know that the Mage rebellion wasn't just the actions of  _one mage_.” Alistair sighed behind her. “But as Alistair said, this debate should wait until we get out of here.” The Fade, this realm of a demon was getting to them, much as she didn't want to admit it.

“You have one more trial to face, Inquisition.” The Divine's voice filled her chest. “The Fear Demon waits just beyond here, guarding the exit.”

Liandra sighed heavily and motioned ahead. “One last stretch. Let's get this over with.”

The spider that guarded the rift was larger than Corypheus's Archdemon. She felt her arms start to quiver. How could they fight that?

A warmth graced her shoulder and the Divine's spirit impersonator moved by her. “If you would, please tell Leliana, 'I'm sorry. I failed you, too.'” The spirit floated toward the enormous spider, sparks emanating off her, injuring the fear demon that called it. The spirit's body glowed brightly and Liandra turned around, shielding her ears.

The explosion was silent, but she felt the impact. Upon turning around, the only danger they faced was the fear demon itself. Just beyond it waited the exit portal. She heard the scratch of metal as weapons were drawn from their sheaths. The fear she felt surrounding her in the Fade changed, another added. The demon was afraid of them.


	9. It Was Never My Choice

The Fear demon dispersed into the air of the Fade, the accompanying scream tearing through her psyche, shredding her ears. Liandra felt the terror fading. Warden Alistair grunted and held a hand to his temple. She moved to him and placed a hand on his elbow; he was slightly taller than the Commander. “Are you all right?”

His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “Yeah, actually. The Calling, it's... it's gone. Everything is much quieter.” He smiled to her. Then another grunt and he held his shield hand across his middle. “Oh, that still smarts.”

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall's voice called to her from across the pool. He motioned to the tear in the Fade. “We should probably move, don't you think?”

She smirked and looked back to the others. Dorian helped Bull to his feet. Vivienne grabbed Cole's hand. Solas placed a hand on Sera's shoulder, trying to comfort her. Varric gestured for Cassandra to move up.

That's when the screech of the spider ripped through the air. The elves covered their ears immediately, Bull closed his eye with one ear covered, and the shemlens all cringed. Liandra felt her stomach drop as the massive spider crawled over the Fadescape mountain.

“Go.” The Inner Circle hesitated. She tore her eyes away from the gargantuan spider and glanced around her. “Come on, everyone go!” Liandra ushered her party through the portal.

Cassandra grabbed her upper arm. “I'm not leaving without you, Liandra.”

“Oh, I was thinking of building a winter home here. Because the Fade is such a pleasant place.” The Seeker issued a disgusted sigh. Liandra placed a hand on the Seeker's. “I need to be the last one out to close to portal. Go, I'll be right behind you.”

The Seeker huffed but followed orders. Liandra watched as each of her Inner Circle jumped through the tear in the Fade. All that was left was her, Katerina and Alistair. Alistair had taken a great deal of the Fear Demon's attacks, limping his way toward the spire that lead to the tear in the Fade. Katerina stayed behind him. As the Warden huffed his way up the spire, the skitter of smaller spiders echoed off the cave on the other side of the pool.

“Oh, perfect.” Katerina found her staff again.

Alistair reached for his sword and shield, but Liandra placed a hand on his arm. He was already wounded, there was no need for him to injure himself further. He furrowed his brow to her, offended at her objections. Liandra attempted a spell, but the enormous spider was unaffected. “There's no way. Just run!”

Alistair and Hawke wholeheartedly agreed, but the spider had a different opinion. One leg crashed down, knocking Katerina into the wall opposite the portal. Her limp body splashed into the water and she did not move for several moments.

“No!” Alistair turned on his heel. Liandra could not stop him from removing his weapons this time.

Hawke got to her knees, blood spattering the Fadescape with her coughs. “I'll cover your escape.” She lifted her head and smiled. Liandra felt the sorrow from the Champion. “Say goodbye to Varric for me. And tell Fenris I'm sorry.” This wasn't Liandra's decision. This was Hawke's decision. She had made peace with it.

Alistair choked out another protest, and Liandra grabbed his arm. “There's nothing we can do, Warden. I'm sorry.” She felt the anguish fill her chest, felt the despair, the anger flowing off of Alistair. It was hard to drag him away.

They fell into the middle of a battle, the spider's chitters echoed through the portal as Hawke screamed. It wasn't pain, it was a warcry. Alistair's weapons clattered to the ground around him. Liandra pushed magic into the Anchor in her hand. She had to respect Hawke's decision. She had to. The Champion of Kirkwall's final act of heroism.

She struggled to focus on the tear in the Veil. She felt it, the fraying edges ripped wider than any rift she had closed before. She had to mend it, had to close it. She formed her magic into a thread, a needle, and wove it through the tear like a suture. She tied it off, knotted the thread of her magic, and yanked her hand back to break her connection.

Her body was weak, her magic pool tapped almost dry. The last time she had closed a rift that size had been just below the Breach. And she had the support of a full retinue of Templars suppressing the magic in the area. She doubled over, hands on her knees, panting heavily. At least she was getting stronger.

The demons linked to the one in the Fade shattered, sucked back into the Fade by the loss of their master. She felt the oppressive presence of demons in the area evaporate and smiled slowly.

Liandra caught her breath and straightened up. The shouts around Adamant died down as the Wardens fell unconscious or surrendered, no longer bound by Corypheus's evil. They had won. The Inquisition was victorious. So why did she feel so empty?

Liandra sent up a spark from her staff, willing the shape of the sparks into a signal, an end to the battle. A few lobbed trebuchet rounds impacted with the walls, but soon she heard no more. The Commander must've seen it, called a cease-fire. She felt a weight lift from her shoulder.

A new shout rose through the Keep, swords and staves lifted in victory.

“Where's Kat?”

Alistair shook his head and stood gingerly. Liandra looked down to Varric. That weight came crashing back down. She pressed her lips together. What could she possibly tell him? Her hand found his shoulder. “She... got held up, Varric.”

His laugh was tight, filled with terror. “Held up?”

Liandra shook her head. They both knew what that meant. His eyes fell, his shoulders sagged. Liandra's ears fell with his shoulders. The dwarf turned away. Liandra pressed her top teeth to her lower lip, the letter V escaping her as an Inquisition agent approached with a salute.

“Inquisitor.” Varric stepped away through the Inner Circle. Liandra watched Cassandra turn and follow after him. “The Venatori magister has been captured, though the Archdemon flew off after the bridge collapse. The uncorrupted Wardens assisted in fighting the demons. Commander Cullen said it would be best to leave their fate to you.”

Liandra raised her brow. Did he know they had gone missing? Or was it wishful thinking that he left the decision to her? “Where is the Commander?”

Before the agent could respond, a Grey Warden from the battlements approached Alistair. “You're the senior Grey Warden here, Alistair.”

“Well, I guess we'll be making a deal then.” Alistair retrieved his weapons from the ground and raised his eyes to Liandra. “The Grey Wardens stand ready to make up for Clarel's transgressions, Inquisitor.”

Liandra shifted her weight. She hated to make decisions in the field. She looked over Alistair's face, watched his arm move back over his middle. He had taken too many hits, fought so hard. “The Grey Wardens are necessary. If I've learned anything since the Conclave, it is that the mistakes of the Officers should not reflect onto the soldiers that suffer. The Wardens will have their chance to redeem themselves.” She placed a hand on the Warden's elbow. “But I will heed Hawke's advice. I will leave a contingent of Inquisition forces with you to help rebuild and keep an eye on the Wardens.” She watched his jaw clench. “I know, Alistair, but the Wardens are still vulnerable to Corypheus. I only wish to keep them safe.”

He sighed heavily and grunted at the pain in his ribs. “I want to believe that-”

She raised a hand to silence him. “It's the truth, Brave Warden. The Grey Wardens are the world's only defense against Darkspawn and the Blight. They are the only ones with enough knowledge to keep Corypheus contained. And I would not see more of them die and I will not exile your Order.” She took a breath. “And if the Wardens would like to volunteer for the Inquisition, I will not turn down their assistance.” Was she doing the right thing?

He seemed to relax at her explanation, though it was a small comfort. “Thank you, Inquisitor. I will send word to Weisshaupt, warn them of the threat and tell them what was causing the Calling. I should also send word to my love, let her know what has happened. I wouldn't know where to send a letter to her, so if I hope it isn't too forward to ask for your help with that?” Liandra smiled to him. The tension in his aura released, a hand lifting to his face. “Maker's breath, I might get to see her again... It's been so long.”

A familiar rattle of armor tickled her ears. She turned to see the Commander jogging towards her. She took a deep breath, catching the terror that lie hidden in his frown. He closed the distance between them and she squeaked when he captured her in his arms. A warmth washed over her, a familiar sooth that she could barely remember. It reminded her of Haven. Her free hand moved around his back, her face burrowing into the fur that lined his shoulders.

“Maker, when I heard-” His voice caught and he held her tighter for a moment.

She had never realized how soft his fur was. It smelled of the siege, of ash and blood and dust. She was safe wrapped in his arms. The siege was over, the battle won. Everything she had felt in the Fade, all the fears and terrors melted away as his aura enveloped her. It had been so terrifying, so harrowing. A tuneless song tickled at the edge of her consciousness, a lullaby. She wanted nothing more than to stay nuzzled into his fur, wrapped in his strong arms, in his protective aura.

The clearing of someone's throat sent a jolt through the Commander. She felt a heat rise on her cheeks and extend up her ears. His hands moved to her shoulders and he pushed her back. The song immediately dissipated. Both her hands found her staff. Distance, friends. There were so many demons still just beyond the Veil, she wasn't sure which ones were his. “Are you unharmed?” The Commander was still worried, but he attempted to shroud it with his duty.

She glanced at Alistair. The Warden was injured. Liandra had managed to make it through the Fade mostly unscathed thanks to him. Alistair smirked, his mirth a bit melancholy. She tried to remember when the Commander had ever embraced her. “Ah... For the most part, I believe so.”

The Commander dropped his hands. There was a reluctance in the motion. “When I received word you had disappeared from the battlefield, I assumed the worst. Where were you? What happened?”

She watched his hands flex, felt the cool from his touch fade. “The mark must've reacted with the Archdemon, or my panic. We fell into the Fade.”

The Commander's hands clenched into fists and she heard the slight gasp. He tried to hide it, but she could feel the fear. Not nearly as strong as the Fade, but the Veil was still weak. “Physically? And you're sure you're all right?”

She swallowed and tapped her staff on the stone floor. “Yes, Commander, I'm fine.” She looked to Alistair. He shook his head. “Well, we... lost one.” Her eyes fell. If only they had been faster, all of them. If only the Divine's spirit, whatever she was, had been able to do more. If only they were stronger. If only  _she_  were stronger. More lives lost because of her decisions.

The Commander furrowed his brow and took inventory of the Inner Circle. “Who?”

Liandra tapped her staff on the tile again. “The... Champion of Kirkwall has fallen.” She heard the rattle of his hands finding his pommel. “She gave her life to cover our escape.”

A hush fell over those gathered. A few knights removed their helms and hung their head. There should be more to say. She should rally them. She was their Inquisitor, their savior.

The Commander's back straightened. He placed a hand on her shoulder, then lifted it and cupped her cheek. “She gave her life not because she'd sworn an oath or been marked as special.” His hand fell away. “The Champion of Kirkwall has always done what needed to be done. Someone had to do it, someone had to accept that responsibility. We should not mourn her loss. We should celebrate her heroism.”

His voice was low, meant to comfort her in her time of despair. She recognized that. But the others had heard his words. It was Bull that started the rallying cry. The Commander smiled to the Qunari and looked around the keep.

He turned back to Liandra. He cleared his throat, his hands gripping his pommel again. “I will have every available agent getting the names of those lost.”

Alistair coughed behind him and tilted his head. “Every name, Commander?”

The Commander turned around to Alistair. Liandra furrowed her brow as the Commander cleared his throat. “Y-yes. If there is anything the Inquisition can do to assist in counting the fallen or funeral arrangements or compensation for your lost Wardens, don't hesitate to ask.”

Alistair chuckled, the laugh broken by the injury. “I am racking up favors with your Inquisition, aren't I?” He grunted slightly. “I should probably get to a healer about this.”

Liandra inhaled sharply and shook her head. “I'm an idiot. I should've...” She had been so caught up in the retreat, in losing Hawke, in the Commander. She took a step forward and held a hand over his armor. Her staff glowed faintly, a bit of blue under her palm.

Warden Alistair slowly straightened, releasing a satisfied cough as his back straightened. “Andraste's tits, that feels so much better.”

Liandra raised her eyes to him. She hadn't heard that particular curse before. “I'm... sorry it took so long, Warden. I should've-”

He smiled down to her, his lips a mask of mirth to cover the pain. “That's perfectly all right. I only lost a little blood.” He looked to the Commander. “Have you thought about sending a letter to Siliandra?”

Liandra's brow furrowed. She remembered the name. “The Hero of Ferelden?” It had been a joke among the Inner Circle that their names were so similar. Varric had taken to calling the Hero “Namesake” when they talked about her.

The Commander took a breath, and Liandra saw his aura weaken. “I have considered it.” He was being evasive.

Alistair held a hand out to the Commander. “She's worried about you from time to time, you know. She wouldn't dismiss a letter from you, if you ever find the time.”

The Commander gripped the Warden's hand as they shook. “Thank you.” There was a tightness to the Commander's expression that sent a chill down Liandra's spine.

Liandra leaned her staff between the pair. There was a familiarity between them she did not recognize. She hadn't been patrolling Alistair's or the Commander's quarters, but she had never witnessed them talking. “What is going on here?”

Alistair balked at the staff and dropped his hand from their shake. “Have you never heard what happened in the Circle tower during the Blight?”

The Commander tensed up immediately. His aura weakened again, and Liandra could feel the demons pressing on it. “I prefer not to speak of it.”

Alistair glanced to him. He nodded conspiratorially. “Ah, of course. My apologies.” He motioned to the remaining Grey Warden officers. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Liandra watched the Warden make his way to the officers. The Commander took a deep breath and turned to her. “Commander?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps we can speak of it over dinner when we get back to Skyhold, Inquisitor.”

Her eyes narrowed at the Commander's retreating back. He was being evasive again. But he had agreed to talk to her about it. She dared not press it. His past, especially during the Blight, was something he refused to share with her, regardless of how many meals they shared.

She heard the tap of a staff and looked to Solas as he approached. “It would seem you have dealt another significant blow to Corypheus, lethallan.”

She relaxed slightly. Solas offered her a small smile. “So it would seem.”

The elf tilted his head. “The Inquisition will share the tale of what happened here. How the Inquisitor broke Corypheus's army with the Maker's Blessing. You should be proud.”

Liandra glanced around her. The Warden mages were beginning to wake. “It wasn't the Maker or Andraste. It was Divine Justinia that saved me, that saved everyone. And Hawke. This would never have been possible without their sacrifices.” She felt her hand spark, as if to remind her of her role.

Solas nodded. “It would be a much greater story if it  _were_  the Maker or Andraste.” He took a deep breath. Liandra felt the hesitation. “You told me once that the humans would continue to place their faith in you, regardless of your intent.”

She furrowed her brow. “I recall something to that effect, yes.”

His fingers tightened around his staff. “I am glad that I was wrong in this instance, lethallan.”

She chuckled slightly. “Thank you, Solas.”

He took a step back. “My faith in you has not gone unrewarded, Inquisitor. You have my utmost respect.”

Liandra felt the praise in her chest. She felt the smile tug at her lips and closed her eyes. After everything that had happened in the Fade, in the Fear demon's territory, hearing those words from  _anyone_...

“Thank you, lethallin.”


	10. Confessions of a Lyrium Addict

Liandra spent a great deal of time in the field, and as such, found her desk piled high with missives upon her return. As the Inquisitor, the head of the Inquisition, her advisors sent her all manner of reports. They had to. By the creators, she didn't care. The reason she had them was so that they would do all the hard work for her. Nightingale, Josie, the Commander, they had been assigned their posts specifically so she didn't have to micromanage every part of the Inquisition. As such, she had demanded that the reports be kept at the War Table until her return. Her apartment was to be clear of all reports. She reasoned that it made more sense, that the reports would get lost if they just piled on her desk. She had revealed later to the Commander that she wanted her apartments to be free of work because she wanted an escape. She had spent a great deal of time with the clan, but a lot of that time was spent escaping it as well. He had agreed with her and promised not to share her secrets.  
  
Though, she found her most precious escape was his tower. It kept them both a bit more sane, able to share in distraction more often. They would find their way to the chess table in the gardens or to the tavern to share a drink or a meal with whoever found them there. Most often it was Krem and Bull, though Sera found her way down. Once the word had spread, Varric and Dorian found their way to the tavern as well. A few occasions even held the full Inner Circle, even Vivienne and Solas. Cole didn't have much reason to indulge in food or drink, though he did find his way to their table on occasion.

They would always return to his tower, much to his increasing chagrin. His office held perhaps more work than the others, though Leliana and Josephine would argue against that. He spent most of his time pacing around his office, reading some report or another. Liandra had become quite adept at recognizing when she could break him of his reverie, pull him out for a distraction. Though that also meant she knew when she couldn't. Most of the time she would leave him to his work, attempt to return to some of her own.  
  
This day was most decidedly not one of them. She had waited while he paced, and as she waited she felt the cold permeating her clothes. Her brow furrowed and she looked around for the source of the draft. Her eyes caught sight of a ladder to her left, something she had not noticed before. She pushed away the question of Why and moved to climb it. Her movements, the tap of her boots on the rungs of the ladder did not pull the Commander from his work.

As she reached the top, Liandra noticed vines creeping through the stones and stretching across the walls. A few of the vines even bore soft white flowers. She pulled herself over the top of the ladder into the room. She kept her eyes on the vines, following them up to the incomplete roof, to the crumbling wall. No wonder it was so cold in the Commander's tower.

She inhaled slowly, her nostrils filling with the scent of the Commander. He had smelled of ash and blood at Adamant, smelled of musk and wine when they took their meals. But here in this room, she smelled just him. The musk and wine, but the soaps he used, the products he used in his hair.

Liandra drifted toward the foot of the bed, her fingers gracing the edge of the footboard. This had to be where the Commander slept. She had always assumed his quarters were somewhere among the troops, or even in the guest area. The sheets had been pulled halfway off the bed toward the floor. The side closest to the ladder. The pillow on one side of the bed held a dent, held an odd stain. He must not have had much time to bath before bed?

She glanced around the room, trying to get a sense of his style. She had been so excited at the prospect of decorating her own space. The clan was always on the move. As such, Liandra had never had a permanent area to call her own. All her belongings were kept in her pack or in a section of an aravel.

The Commander’s room looked just as sparse as her tent in the clan. There was a footlocker with carvings of mabari, the bed looked like the one she had seen in Val Royeaux, a rug under the bed and footlocker. Beside the bed sat an upright barrel, the top covered with a cloth to protect the bottles resting on it. A couple more barrels littered the room in similar fashion and she wondered if anything were even inside them. Along the wall opposite the bed stood a dresser with a mirror on top, leaned against the wall. Beside the dresser stood a bookshelf filled with books. Some of them she recognized as Varric’s by their spine art. She drifted from the bed to the shelf and started to look through the titles. 

She found a book on Dalish customs, another on Dalish language. Her brow furrowed. The rest of the titles had been recreational, but these were research. Why had they found their way to his personal loft, rather than on the shelves or in the stacks downstairs? Had he been researching the Dalish for their newest agents? Cillian had been a hermit, but Neria was the Keeper’s apprentice, and Loranil was still finding a place to fit in. Or was he researching the Dalish because of Liandra?

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a pile of debris in the unused corner by the ladder. The pile rested above the same corner on the lower floor that contained a pile of materials. Materials that she often used as a place to sit when she visited him in his office. She could tell through the wood that the floor there was incomplete, in need of repair. Much like the roof above it. Her eyes scanned the peaked roof for more holes. She had plenty to find.

The Commander’s bedroom was in desperate need of repair, if not a more personal touch. The Inquisition had been in Skyhold for months now; even Leliana had personalized her tower with a miniature shrine to Andraste.

A fit of coughs, wet coughs, exploded from downstairs. They were alone in the tower, Liandra and the Commander. The coughs were accompanied by the familiar rattle of his armors. Wet coughs were never a good sign. Fear clutched her chest and she hurried to the ladder.

"Commander?" Her voice quelled the coughs.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Yes?" His voice did not carry.  
  
His coughs may have ceased, but that did not mean he was fine. Her hands gripped the top of the ladder. “Are you all right?”

There was a small moment and she heard the tap of his boots pacing behind his desk. “Yes.” He had not remained silent, but his voice was distant.

Her brow furrowed and she turned to being her descent. He had been evasive about his withdrawal symptoms before. He never wanted to display any signs of weakness, any signs of distress. Especially in front of his men. Any shaking she noticed, any headaches he seemed to have, any pain she could feel from him would be distracted from in some way. She took a deep breath. Distracted.

Her boots tapped gently on the ladder as she moved down. "Commander, is this where you sleep?"  
  
She heard a pained grunt. "Some nights." His voice was further away. The bottles on his desk rattled.  
  
Her brow furrowed. The rattle of the bottles worried her. She moved to start her descent down the ladder. "What do you mean by 'some nights'?"

She heard the pair of thuds in quick succession coupled with the jangle of his armor. She dropped a few more rungs to look past the beams that supported the second floor. She felt the gasp that filled her chest.

The Commander had fallen to his knees beside his desk. The report he had been reading was held under his hand against the floor, his other still gripping the desk. He must’ve tripped, fallen, tried to catch himself. She watched, paralyzed by fear, as the mane lifted and fell quickly with his panting breath.

“Commander!” His title left her, the promise of his name on her tongue. She dropped another rung and jumped toward him. A gust of wind softened her landing and she took a few hastened steps toward him.  
  
“No!” She balked. "Leave me!" His hand left his desk to flail blindly, weakly at her. "Foul demon, I know what you want. Desire, so aptly named. I will not falter. You will not have me!"  
  
Liandra froze. He had been a Templar, he must’ve dealt with demons before. But she assumed that meant when they possessed a mage in the Circle. His words hinted at something else.

Dorian had mentioned something to her once, shortly after their arrival at Skyhold. The Commander had come to the library looking for a cure for demonic scars. Liandra hadn’t thought much of it, agreeing that perhaps the Commander was worried on her behalf. The Commander growled and shook his head. They must’ve been wrong.

As much as they had gotten to know each other, sharing tales from their past, mischief they had gotten into – her in her clan, him in the Order – she realized he had always avoided one subject: Kinloch during the Blight. He had mentioned something about abominations, and Warden Alistair had hinted at something, but they had never gotten around to it. She wanted to wait until he was ready.

His body gave and he fell to his hands. "It burns and you love it. It burns me, but I yet live." She saw droplets appearing on the wood below him, water soaking into the dry wood. "Maker, why keep me and not the others. Why torture me, why keep me from your side?"  
  
Her brow furrowed and she crouched in front of him again. "Commander?"  
  
"Tempt me no more." His words were weak, but he did not falter.  
  
She moved closer to him. She wanted to help him, needed to. He was alone, reliving a torture that pulled him from this reality into a memory. She rested her hands on the floor, her fingertips brushing the wood, her mark glowing faintly. “Commander, I’m right here.”

“Blessed are they-“ He took a deep breath. “-who stand before the corrupt-“ He swallowed. “-and the wicked and _do not falter_.” She watched his jaw clench.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers.” She scooted closer to him, her fingers worming their way toward his. “The Champions of the just.” She remembered it from her studies into the Chant of Light.

Those words were enough, it seemed. She felt a lingering presence pass beyond the Veil. More than likely a demon. She waited for a moment. The Commander's shoulders sagged for a moment before he pushed himself off the floor. He straightened his torso, resting himself on his heels, and let his head fall back. She heard the sniffle, then the exhale. He was still panting, still struggling to find his breath, to recover.

Liandra reached out to him, hesitantly. He hadn’t been alone this time, but how many other episodes had there been? How many times had she been in the field and this happened? How did he maintain his strength, his composure, his position as Commander? Her hand fell to her knee, her brow furrowing. This was what he had been evasive about. This was what he had kept from her. She set her jaw, fighting the anger that was building.

He panted heavily, his eyes closed and wet with tears. He sniffled once or twice between his panting breaths. It pained her to see him this way, to know that she could not get closer to him. They were friends. Did friends hold each other in times like this? His eyes opened slowly and he straightened his neck. He jolted when he saw her.  
  
"Inquisitor!" His gloves moved immediately to wipe his face of the tears and he sniffled in quick succession. "My apologies. How long have you been here?"  
  
She stood and held her hand out toward him. "Longer than you'd like me to be..." He glanced to her knees, but accepted her assistance in standing. His knees buckled under his weight, but he kept himself braced with his desk.  
  
She had so many questions to ask, but now was not the time. He was still weak, still vulnerable. He needed to rest. Her eyes fell on the chair that rested against the wall away from his desk. He could sit there were it not for the books and scrolls stacked in it. She moved around him and shifted the items to the floor. He leaned against his desk as she worked. Battles were won on your feet, he had told her, not sitting behind a desk. She held her hand out to him when the chair was clear and he used his arm as a cane while he made his way around his desk. He sank into the chair, his knees spreading wide, head slumping against his hand braced on the arm of the chair by his elbow. She gave him a moment to recover, retrieving the papers he had dropped in his fit.  
  
The report he had been reading was returned to his desk, left alone when she moved close to him. He sat in the chair and fell forward, elbows on his knees. She could see it now, the breach in his aura. His hands quivered gently between his knees. Her hands moved into the fur that lined his shoulders. She hadn’t meant to. But he needed her. Just as she had needed him at Adamant. He needed someone or something to help him restore his protection, to fight off the demons.  
  
"Commander..." He did not push her away. Liandra felt him quivering through his fur, heard the slight jangle of his armor. "More symptoms of lyrium withdrawal...?"  
  
"I never wanted you to see me like this..." His voice was barely above a whisper, his shaking worsened.  
  
"To hide all the symptoms away, that was your plan?" He coughed below her. She frowned and felt tears stinging her eyes. She balled them up and plugged her throat with them. She tried to fight the anger again, but she was losing. The demons would be coming for her soon, and she wasn't entirely sure she would turn them away. "You act as if you alone command the entire Inquisition, as if you alone have to suffer any consequences. You are not alone.” Her eyes closed. She had so much she wanted – needed to say. She closed her eyes. “ _Emma na falon. Mala suledin nadas._ "  
  
His coughing calmed as she spoke softly to him. She felt the shaking calm as well. The Fade was quiet in her mind, the scramble of demons seeing her need slip away. Speaking in her native tongue had strengthened her.  
  
"What does that mean?" His voice was moist, wet with his coughs. But stronger.  
  
She shook her head. Part of her was comforted that he did not know Dalish. "You have friends."  
  
“Friends...” He straightened himself and looked up to her. She could see the redness in his eyes, the pain and sorrow, the weariness. Varric was right, he wore a serious face entirely too often.

His eyes closed again and he shook his head. She slid her hands around his mane and grazed the back of his neck. His body quivered with the breath that moved through him at her touch. She swallowed hard. She needed to know. “What happened, Commander?”  
  
He shook his head. "I never told you, did I.” It was an admission, filled with regret and guilt. “I mentioned it to you, what happened at the Circle Tower in Ferelden?”

Liandra nodded over him, moving away to rest her hips on his desk. “You mentioned it was overrun by abominations.” His gaze returned to the floor. “I… didn’t want to ask. You were always evasive about it. I thought you might tell me in your own time.”

His head lifted, brow knit. His eyes regarded her as if for the first time. “Thank you… for that, Inquisitor.” He swallowed and took a breath. “During the Fifth Blight, there was a rebellion at Kinloch Hold.”

Her brow furrowed immediately. With what she had heard of Kirkwall, it was no wonder the Commander was so affected. “You were there.”

His head fell once in a grim nod. “The Harrowing Chamber at the top of the tower was taken over by a group of blood mages. Their leader, a man named Uldred, summoned a demon to aid him. It took him instead.” His eyes closed, a hand raising to his temple. Her fingers rubbed against the edge of his desk. “The demon summoned more, giving them the bodies of the apprentices and Enchanters in the chamber with them. The demons moved their way down, summoning more, making the rest of the tower into abominations.

“The Templars were trained to handle just that sort of thing. The Knight-Commander was hesitant to call for the Right of Annulment. We had no way of knowing how dire the situation had become. He sent groups of Templars into the tower, headed for the source. If we could just kill Uldred, stop him from making more abomination, maybe we could retake the tower.

“But that meant we had to make it to the Harrowing Chamber. It was four floors away. Knight-Commander Greagoir sent a group of Templars ahead to clear a path. When nothing was heard from them for several hours, he sent another group.”

She watched his eyes closed tightly, felt his aura searching for hers. She almost pushed off the desk and closed the gap, offered him someone to lean on. But they were friends. And friends listened. “We found a group of untainted mages defending the children from the rest of the tower. The adults had fashioned a barrier in an archway to keep themselves safe. They allowed us passage.

“There was so much blood. The library had been torn apart. Every one of us could feel the magic that had been imbued in the books. Summoning circles littered every floor. We cut down every abomination we found, made our way higher through the tower. But, as with every battle, some of us were lost.”

She clenched her jaw. “Commander, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded absently. “Some of the men I had trained with, that had mentored me… They were torn apart by demons that could not corrupt them. Older ones were turned from their duties by demons offering fulfillment. Some were simply possessed, turned into abominations as well.”

Liandra shifted her weight, wetting her lips absently. “But not you.”

She heard him sniffle, heard his voice crack. “No. I remained strong. I had to. There were children on the ground floor, innocent mages, Templar brothers. I had a duty.” He shook his head. “I had to keep them safe. I had to.”

She heard him breaking at the memory, felt the weakness return to his aura. “Commander.” He inhaled slowly. “You made it. You succeeded.” Remind him of his success.

He shook his head. “No! No… I made it to the room just below the Harrowing Chamber with a few others.” He ran his fingers over his forehead. “They took the blows. They protected me, ended the lives of a few abominations. I survived.” His hand fell. “I survived so that a Desire Demon might have me.”

She stiffened, her fingers digging into the edge of the desk. Her chest felt hollow, her nose tingled. The tears threatened her eyes again. “Dorian told me you were looking for a cure for demonic scars.” She struggled to keep her voice steady.

“Warden Alistair mentioned the Hero of Ferelden. Siliandra.” Liandra nodded once. “She was one of the mages in the tower before… everything. She was a model charge. We… were friend once. As much as a Templar and Mage could be.” His legs started to bounce, hands shaking again. “I found myself wanting more from her. But it was inappropriate. It was wrong. I knew that. So I fought it, maintained a distance. So when I made it to the Harrowing Chamber, when the Desire Demon found me-“ He grunted and lifted a shaking hand to his temple. “It found the desires I tried to suppress. It found the memories, the _perversions_ and warped them, used them against me. It carved a path through my mind, looking for more ways to tempt me. The more I resisted, the deeper it cut. It would have me, it would turn me, like the others.” He grit his teeth. “It tortured me, carved and peeled and rip-”  
  
Liandra felt it, felt more demons reaching for both of them. She pushed herself off the desk and closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his mane of fur. Friends may not do this, but she had to. She leaned down, protecting his presence from the others. She couldn't help but feel the jealousy over the Grey Warden for catching his eye, for lingering so long in his memories. "You're safe now, Commander."  
  
His hands moved around her waist, grounding him. The jingling ceased, but she could still feel his hands shaking on her back. "Am I?"  
  
Liandra frowned over him, moving her hands back to his shoulders. His hands continued to shake. “ _Hamin_. You've been touched by the Fade, Commander, touched by a demon. The lyrium may have kept you strong against the magic, but it has damaged your body and your spirit. The withdrawal makes you weaker, but by no means are you unsafe. With time, you should recover and be strong as a Lion." She felt a slight chuckle against her stomach. "You've come this far, Commander, you can make the rest of the journey."  
  
His hazel eyes met hers again and he frowned gently. "How can you be so sure?"  
  
She ran her fingers through his hair, his eyes closing in bliss as she did so. It felt odd, waxy, leaving a residue on her fingers. But she enjoyed it nonetheless because of the easiness she felt growing in him. His aura strengthened with every stroke, his quivering fading slightly. She swallowed the tears lodged in her throat and smiled to him. "Because you have endured this long alone, and I will accompany you the rest of the way." They were friends. Friends walked these paths together.  
  
His eyebrows lifted, eyes opening to her, his armor rattling with him. "Maker, I can't ask you to do that."  
  
She set her jaw, shifting her weight. After everything he had told her, everything she had witnessed, and he still refused to accept her help. No longer. "You can't stop me either."  
  
The rattling quieted. His shoulders sagged, head shaking slightly as it fell. "You are a miracle..." His voice breathy, the words meant for his ears, not hers.  
  
She wasn't a miracle, she was a victim of circumstance. She nodded to him and extricated herself from their embrace. It felt right to have his arms around her, to comfort him. He had needed someone, something to keep him safe, grounded, and she had provided that. But the danger had passed. She was no longer needed. "Is that why you only sleep some nights?"  
  
His hands moved to his knees, then one lifted to his forehead. He was still recovering, still in pain. His aura was stronger at least, more capable of resisting the demons. His brow lifted, though his eyes remained closed. "Beg pardon?"  
  
She motioned upward, feeling silly when she remembered his eyes were still closed. "I asked if you slept up there, up the ladder." He shifted uncomfortably, his hand shifting from his forehead to rub the back of his neck, eyes open again. "The withdrawal symptoms keep you awake."  
  
"It's the dreams, mostly..." His eyes refused to meet hers.  
  
He was being evasive. "Nightmares, more like?"  
  
He wet his lips and kept his gaze anywhere in his office but her. "Much... like the one you just witnessed."  
  
How long had he dealt with these nightmares? How many nights had the Commander gone without rest? She looked down, her mind working. She had offered to help. "Dreaming allows you to enter the Fade, thus making the demons' will stronger there. They find you and claw at you, forcing you to relive the torture." She frowned. He was a stubborn fool. There were solutions, magical wards to protect him from demons as he slept. But would he accept them? Should she even offer them?  
  
He took a cleansing breath. He hadn't wanted to share this with her, she could tell, but she wasn't going to let that precedent stand. "Precisely... Without the lyrium-”

“Commander.” The title had come out harsher than she intended. He was suggesting returning to the lyrium, using it as an excuse. She would not allow that either. She tilted her head to him and leaned back against his desk again. She steadied her voice, measured her tone carefully. “If you need something to help you, there are magical wards I could place around your... quarters to ward off the demons that may prey on you in your sleep.”

He took a breath and rubbed his gloved hands together in hopes of calming them. It didn't work. “Thank you, Inquisitor, but I'll be fine.” He stood from the chair and swallowed hard. “I'm... grateful that you were here.”

She smiled up to him, her eyes falling to his quivering hands. Her fingers tingled, flexed at the need to reach out, to comfort them. “I just wish there was more I could do. More that you would _let_ me do.”

He forced a smile. “Really, I'll be fine. I have endured this long.” That word again.

She pressed her lips into a smile, but she could see the damage done to his aura, feel the demons preying on him again. She didn't believe him, but she prayed to whatever Gods were out there to keep him safe while she was away. Even if she were only on the other side of Skyhold. “Don't hesitate to ask for me, Commander. We're friends. I don't want to see you suffer alone when I could be here with you.”

He moved beside her and she felt the desire demons more strongly then she had before. “Thank you, Inquisitor. I will try to remember that.” His hands found the report he had been reading.

Liandra watched him return to the report. The conversation was over, the danger had passed for now, but she could feel his unspoken need of her proximity. She chuckled and looked on the desk behind her. It was clear enough for her to hop up and sit on. She watched the ghost of a smile grace his lips, his eyes dart in her direction and back to the missive.


	11. Dragonslayer

He had been pacing since he had slid down his ladder that morning. She had immediately dispatched herself on a long deployment shortly after the episode in his office. He still felt the sting from that day, from being unable to resist it. The Commander of the Inquisition should always be strong, should never weaken. And yet he had lost himself. He had lost himself _in front of her_.

He had relished every touch she graced him with. Her fingers moving over the mane of fur, the brush of her fingertips over the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant to cling to her, but he had been drowning, struggling to recover. He had needed something to help him breath, to escape the pain. But it had been her fingers through his hair, despite what he did to it, that had finally brought him back. She had never worn her gloves in Skyhold, not when she was sharing his office. Her bare fingers threaded through his hair, spreading a gentle warmth over his scalp, cooling the headache, tickling his sense. Goosepimples had risen under his armor as she stroked his hair.

The fires lit in his veins, another headache burning behind his eyes. He had to stop thinking of her that way. She was the Inquisitor. He just hoped she had been frightened by his nightmare. That she had not deployed herself, left Skyhold to escape him. That she wasn’t throwing herself into unnecessary danger.

The last camp she had rested at sent word that she was to fight a High Dragon. He had tried to get a crow back with word not to let her, but he knew that she probably already had. His worst fear had been realized.  
  
It had been weeks since the camp had sent word that she had lived, that they had acquired a new agent, that she would be returning to Skyhold. He had stern words waiting for her when she returned with the others. Though, to say nothing of the rest of the Inner Circle, Cassandra was probably the best candidate to take with her should she go hunting dragons. She, at least, came from a clan that had been known for doing just that. She could keep the Inner Circle safe and coordinate them to kill it better than anyone. He trusted her to keep them safe.  
  
He sighed heavily and felt the burning in his skull. Maker, he wanted her to come back. His office felt emptier without her. Which was a troubling thought all on its own. His eyes lifted to the corner where she typically sat, resting on the white sheet that covered the materials he had been putting off using on repairs. He had never really considered the damage to his tower, but after his episode, after he had recovered, she had chided him for allowing it to remain in such disrepair.

He could do something. He should. Before she returned, he would make that corner more comfortable for her. Maybe he would get Gatsi to actually complete the repairs to his loft. It was the least he could do for her. She had done so much for him.

He took a deep breath. He would need to draft a formal request. Josephine would want to keep a log of all changes made to Skyhold. He lifted a blank piece of parchment and unstoppered his inkwell. His quill was recovered and he dipped it in the inkwell. Just as his quill scratched over the parchment, he heard the office door directly across from him open.  
  
"Commander, I hear you wanted to see me as soon as I returned." Her voice was weary.  
  
There were few voices he had expected to hear. The formal request was forgotten, the admonishment lost as the burn of his scars flared behind his eyes. "Inquisitor! You made it back." The quill was dropped haphazardly on the quillrest and he rushed to scoop the small elf in his embrace. He shouldn’t have, but he had been so worried, so happy. Friends still greeted with hugs, right? His excitement was rewarded with not a giggle but a yelp. He released her immediately. “Are you all right?”  
  
Her left eye closed, her ears sagging slightly. "Apologies, Commander... Dragons are not content to eat the dinner you bring them."  
  
Those stern words returned to him. "It was foolish of you to engage the dragon at all." He pressed his lips together. He could've lost her. "Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, none of that matters if you get yourself chewed up in the maw of a High Dragon." He backed away from her. He shouldn't be so close to her. "How could you do such a thing?"  
  
She smiled to him, a hand moving absently toward her side, gingerly testing the skin. "In my defense, Commander, the researcher requested I only observe."  
  
He frowned to her, the fires behind his eyes fading a bit. The longer the spoke, the less it burned. He was comfortable in her presence. "Dragons can be unpredictable at best, I suppose.” His hands found the pommel of his sword. “Still, I am... relieved you made it back." He hoped she heard his apology.  
  
"As am I." He felt the fire burn again as she giggled, choked off by her injury.  
  
He felt the tightness in his chest and looked down to her bent arm, guarding her side. He tightened his grip on his pommel, fighting the need to check her over. “Have you gone to see the healers yet?”

The Inquisitor shook her head and shrugged. “They will tell me the same thing they told me after Haven. You are past the point of magical healing. Rest, relax, let your body heal naturally.”

He heard the leathers of his gloves creak. Haven had been a nightmare. “You were injured that badly?” He felt his muscles tense, the need to hold her, to peruse her injuries, to haul her down to the healers to verify her pessimism. Maker guide him.

“It was a dragon, Commander. Not the last, but we felled it. And we gained a valuable asset in the process. Frederick will prove very useful in our research against Coryphe-fish's Archdemon. Much more than Alistair was.”

Cullen frowned at the nickname she had picked up from Sera. He had never really approved of it. He was a threat and should be treated as such. Though, he could see the merit in giving their enemy a silly name to strip him of some of his power.

The Grey Warden was a good soldier, had a good head on his shoulders. Though he had little information on Corypheus and how to deal with him, he had sent plenty of research back after they had retaken Adamant. Unfortunately, the Warden hadn't known why he could use Templar abilities without lyrium.

It hadn’t taken the Warden very long to recognize. The events surrounding the Fifth Blight was burned into the memory of everyone in Ferelden. Cullen had barely recognized the Warden when he rode through the gates, but once the scars started to burn, he remembered. He had wanted to hide, to avoid the man as much as possible, to avoid the questions and reminders. But he had felt the same about Leliana. They would have to work together, they would need to trust each other, and avoidance would not foster that. They were older, wiser, stronger now.

The greeting the men had shared when Cullen had wandered into the guest room had been warm, but loaded. They both knew. Neither wanted to be the one to broach the subject. So he had done it.

Her arm lowered from her side, pulling him from his thoughts. “He wasn’t completely without merit, Inquisitor.”

The tips of her ears lifted slightly with her eyebrows. “Oh? Word from Adamant finally make it back?”

He nodded slowly and his hand left his pommel, held out toward the side she had been nursing. “Rebuilding Adamant is going well. The Wardens are determined to repair the keep with their own men. All the better, we don’t have many men to spare for such an undertaking.” His gloves touched the wool dress she wore, rather than her buttondown shirt. “The Warden Mages have been checked at length by a few Templar veterans. The others have been undergoing a new training regimen approved by Cassandra.” She smiled and looked down to his hand on her side. He swallowed. He wished he could mend her, that she would accept his help.

She placed a hand on his on her side. He felt a warmth move down his arm. Magic? “How are they taking to their Inquisition watchdogs?”

His eyes shifted to her green ones. The warmth ignited the scars in his skull, but it wasn’t painful. “Actually quite pleasantly. I didn’t want the Wardens to feel like the mages in their towers, so I started to implement a few of my ideas for Circle reform. It may not be exactly the same, but I thought it better to experiment first. Especially with something not as volatile.” Her hand gripped his as he shifted it around her back. She grunted and her eyes narrowed, ears pressing against her hair. “Inquisitor?”

She groaned slightly, her hand sliding up his arm. A gentle urging for him to remove it. He followed her order. “Still a bit tender, as you can imagine.”

His brow furrowed. She shouldn’t be standing in his office. He moved around her to the door. “You should get to your room then and begin the healing process.” He was sure she was more injured than she had been in Haven. She had assisted with the forward scouting after Haven, but if she could barely withstand his touch?

“Commander, I’ll be fine. I made it this far without you coddling me.” It was a joke, he knew that. The fires flared and he longed to do just that.

Cullen sighed gently to her, willing himself to cater to her whims. "What plans do you have for your return, then?"  
  
She grinned slowly. "There is to be a celebration, Commander." The grin reached her eyes, crinkling them at the edges.  
  
He arched a brow. His ground his teeth for a moment to stem the objections that rose in his throat. He had very little power over her. “Are you sure you're in the shape to celebrate?”

She chuckled, broken by her pain, but she maintained the grin. “I'll be fine. I just have a few recipes I'd like to try.”

Recipes? His ears moved back. "Don't tell me..."  
  
The Inquisitor nodded slowly, a smirk playing on her lips. "That's right, Commander. Dragon meat. And lots of it."  
  
He sighed gently, a warm smile playing somewhere in his heart. "Your hobby will be the death of my career as a soldier."

The Inquisitor shook her head. “You protest, but my cooking just means you have to work twice as hard in the training yards. Keeps you fit."

He had gained a bit of weight since their standing dinners on her returns and just before her departures. But it only pushed him to train harder, to get into the pit with his men more often. Though, that also meant he built up more muscle, more tone. Perhaps the dinners weren’t such a bad thing after all.

How had she managed to transport the dragon meat all the way from the Western Approach? "I would try to talk you out of it, but I know you’ll do what you want regardless. Would you like me to join you early to help with the preparation?"  
  
“If you’d like to. There is a lot of meat and Bull demanded a meal of it. When I told him I had a few things I’d like to try…” Cullen straightened his back. She had been afraid of revealing her secret to them. “Varric overheard and said we should celebrate.”

His eyebrows lifted. He felt the smile widen on the scarred side of his lips. “They didn’t mock you?”

Her eyes fell, but he could see her bashful smile. “They didn’t mock me. They were actually interested in my recipes.”

Cullen took a deep breath. He was happy for her, truly, but now she was further from her bed to prepare a feast. “See, Inquisitor? You were afraid of nothing. You have a loyal team.” She would not be headed to her room anytime soon, nor to the kitchens. His hand lifted to rub the back of his neck, shielding a gentle sigh. “You should probably enlist a few more cooks to help you prepare for a feast. I can’t get you to rest, but I can get you to lessen the load.” He started to move past her, back to his desk, back to his work. She took his elbow and moved with him. “Might I convince you to do that, Inquisitor?”

He led her to his desk where she released his arm. “I’ll take it into consideration, Commander.” They shared a smile at the playful formality. Her eyes followed his hands as he shuffled through the papers on his desk. "What's this?"  
  
Mia's handwriting lifted from the table toward the Inquisitor's bright green eyes. "Just a letter from my sister." His fingers itched to snatch it away.  
  
"That's the message you write to your sister?" She flipped the paper around. "'Hey, I'm not dead, I love you'?"  
  
She still refused to use his name. But those last three tugged at his chest. Always just The Commander or nothing. He felt his heart drop into his gut. He pursed his lips. "I've never been very good at-" He lifted his hand toward the paper. She pulled it away.  
  
"With how I've seen you throw yourself into every aspect of this position – lyrium withdrawal, offering to sacrifice yourself, spending many sleepless nights going over troop movements and supply lines, many others conducting research, leading the charge into Adamant, the treatment of the mages and Templars, and so much more - I refuse to believe that you would settle for two sentences for your family. You write more in a report about what happened with a group of four agents in an Elven Ruin."  
  
He felt the scowl angle his features. Those reports had to be detailed. This was a personal matter. "I appreciate the compliment, Inquisitor, but I'll remind you that I haven't been on the best of terms with my family for a long time.” He didn’t appreciate her attacking him. “I don't suppose you've had many letters back to your clan?” As soon as the words left him, he regretted them.  
  
Her eyes darted away, the letter slammed to his desk. He swore he saw her ears sag just a bit at his words. Venomous words that she did not deserve. Maybe a little. "Maker's breath-"  
  
She raised a hand. "The Inquisition has sent their support. It is the least I can do for them. I bear them no ill will, but I would remind _you_ , Commander, that I have never been on the best of terms with them throughout my _life_."  
  
Her words were spat with equal venom, but she seemed drained of it quickly. He lifted a hand for her, but she turned toward the open door. His hand continued to the back of his neck.

   
"I should probably get started on the feast." And with that, he watched her attempt to hide a limp out of his office.

\---

The dragon's scales and bones had been sent to Harritt, Dagna, and Frederick for research and crafting. But the meat had been taken to the kitchens off the formal dining room for the celebration of the Inner Circle. Iron Bull had been the most interested in the recipes that the Inquisitor had offered to make. There was so much meat the she had taken it upon herself to make a few different things. There was a stew, a rib roast with many fixings, and several grilled pieces. There was a wide array of vegetables and noodles and breads and gravies to compensate for everyone's different tastes.

The Commander had arrived after a few of the others. He had made sure to remove his armor in his quarters beforehand. Varric, Bull, and Solas were among the first ones there. Cassandra was next, her armor also left in her quarters. He smiled and greeted her with a compliment. He saw the blush creep onto her cheeks, but she made a disgusted noise and sat down at the end of the table. Vivienne and Dorian arrived fashionably late. Sera and Blackwall eventually found their way there, Blackwall going so far as to wear lighter clothes and he even looked to have bathed. Cole lingered in the shadows off the side. It was Varric that called him to join the rest. Leliana and Josephine were collected at the behest of the Inquisitor as she worked from the kitchen, and Cullen tilted his head.

Every single member of the Inner Circle had some kind of cast or splint or bandage. Bull’s arms and chest were covered in bandages, his movements cautious on occasion. Cassandra had a swollen eye, her shield arm in a sling. Varric had one arm in a sling, half of it covered in a splint. Vivienne had a few stitches on his hands, black and sticking up. Blackwall appeared to be walking with a limp, falling heavily into his chair. Solas used his staff as a walking aid, his leg in a splint as well. Dorian’s arms were wrapped in a few bandages here or there. Cole’s movements, his careful leaning and fussing with his abdomen hinted at possible rib injuries. Sera seemed to be the only one without any massive damage, a few bandages on her legs but nothing more. Though they all could’ve had more injuries under their clothes that Cullen wouldn’t have been able to see.

She hadn't wanted to share her cooking hobby with the rest, and yet here she was masterminding a feast. After delivering the word that dinner was imminent to Leliana and Josephine, Cullen made his way toward the kitchens. He opened the door and was immediately hit with many smells at once. He waved to the Inquisitor and she smiled. Her hair was falling out of the careful tails she had tied them in, frantically moving around the kitchen and ordering the kitchen staff around. Everything about her work in the kitchen looked natural, looked passionate. This was the Inquisitor he wanted to keep with him, keep safe. She should’ve been resting. Part of him wanted to share this moment, so that the others knew her beauty, but the other parts wanted to shelter her, to keep this moment to himself. The burning returned behind his eyes, but it was a burn he was familiar with, a burn he desired.

The Inquisitor thanked the staff after every command, and complimented them on their work. She reminded them that they were more than welcome to share in the feast when it was complete. They all bowed their thanks as well, and Cullen smirked from the doorway. The only real thing the Inquisitor had left to do was cut the roast. She found a large kitchen knife and set to the task of cutting into it. She grunted slightly as she tried to cut into it.

“Inquisitor, don't strain yourself.” He moved through the doorway immediately. She really should be resting.

“Commander, I'm fine. If I need help, I'll be the first to ask.” They both knew that wasn't true. Her eyes lifted to him and her brow raised. “You took off your armor?”

He reached for the fork and knife she had stabbed into the roast. She relinquished them with a sigh and roll of her eyes. He wanted to remove her from the kitchen, the majority of the work done. But the Inquisitor had grown willful in her time away from the clan, in her time among the Inner Circle, in her time as Inquisitor. He found the task of cutting difficult, but he was able to get through much easier than her attempt. “Of course. This is a celebration, is it not?” He smiled to her. “I'm not the only one, either. The others are just as excited.”

One hand moved to her right side. She held it gingerly, her eyes unfocused for a moment. “They haven't said anything about...” Apprehension.

He started on another filet. “About what, Inquisitor?”

She looked toward the door. Some of the staff had started taking out quantities of sides and breads. “The fact that I cook being strange?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought we talked about this earlier.”

She fidgeted, moving out of the way of the kitchen staff. “That was before.”

He started on another filet. “They all wait with bated breath to taste the delicacies you have made.” He leaned slightly to catch her eye. “I assured them of the quality of your cooking. They are all impressed.”

Her back stiffened, or tried to, and she grunted again as the pain of her injuries took their toll. “Impressed?”

There was nothing for her to do in the kitchen. He and the staff could handle the rest. He motioned to the door. “Go sit down. Revel in the _friends_ you have out there, and I will bring out the steaks.”

The Inquisitor nodded numbly and headed for the door. The limp had not dissipated. She couldn’t even hide it now. She moved out of the way of the returning staff and turned back to him. “Oh, what will you drink? Your milk is the best kept secret in Skyhold.”

He felt his cheeks flush. “Perhaps I should try something different tonight...”

She motioned to the shelf. “Wine? Juice? Ale?”

He carved into the roast again. “What will you be having?”

She smirked to him. “Milk.”

He chuckled. Of course she was. “Then I will share it. We can fend off the comments together. You made the dinner, after all.” Her brow furrowed and she motioned to a staff member walking by. “Apologies. It was your idea with the hard work of the kitchen staff.”

One of the cooks held up a finger. “Your Worship, we've taken everything out except the...” She motioned to roast.

The Inquisitor smiled slightly and pointed. “Get four of those steaks and take them out.”

“Not all five, Your Worship?” Cullen could see the Inquisitor's distaste of the title in the twitch of her ears.

“Ah, no. I remember Scully said he wanted a steak, and you said you wanted the grilled pieces, and Gilly said she wanted the stew. If anyone else wants a steak, I'll be sure to send the Commander back to cut some more off if you can't do it yourselves.”

The woman blushed darkly and shook her head. “I can't ask that of you, You-”

The Inquisitor stood straighter, and Cullen noticed the twitch of her ears at the unvoiced pain. “You didn't, I gave it to you freely. Now help the Commander with the steaks and we'll take them out so that the rest of you can get your own feast started.”

Cullen placed the knife down and assisted the staff with transferring the steaks to another platter. The woman headed for the door and the Inquisitor took the dish from her. The woman stiffened, but relinquished the platter. The Inquisitor smiled a thanks and the woman moved back into the kitchen to call the staff to start making their own plates.

Cullen frowned at the Inquisitor's limp as she tried to walk into the main hall. All that work she had done in the kitchens was taking its toll on her body. He felt the scars burn, the painful kind, and fought the urge to scoop her up in his arms and carry her to her quarters. She should be resting. He would have to stand guard to keep her there, to keep her resting as she should be. But he knew it would be a blessing, rather than the duty of his vigil in the Circles.

Instead, he moved forward and took the platter from her. She nodded to him, the only acknowledgment he would see of her weakness, her injury, and she opened the door to the dining room for him.

A cheer rose up among the gathered party, and the steaks were set down in the center of the table. Bull was the first to shift one onto his plate. Everyone else had already started eating their respective choices for dinner, having been ready first. Cullen took it upon himself to lower the Inquisitor into her seat at the head of the table and push her in.

“I never took you for that sort of gentleman, Commander.” Vivienne purred from her spot at the table.

“The Commander is full of many surprises, Madame de Fer.” The Inquisitor smiled to her and motioned for the stew.

“I'm sure you've seen them all, haven't you, Spitfire?” Varric popped a mushroom into his mouth and smirked around his chewing.

It was Cassandra's squeal of delight that startled the party. She looked up with her good eye and motioned to her steak. The other was still swollen, healing. “This is leagues better than anything my clan could've cooked, Liandra. Thank you.”

There was a chorus of agreements among the table. Cullen put his hands on her shoulders. Liandra shook her head. “It wasn't just me that made this happen. Those of you at this table are covered in new bruises and scars to go along with the bounty we were afforded. You all risked your lives to fell that High Dragon. This feast is my thanks to you all. For standing with me, for marching into certain death every day by my side.” Cullen's eyes were called to her ears at their twitching. She grunted slightly and shifted in her seat. “You are my advisors, my comrades at arms. But you are also more than that. You are my friends and my brothers and sisters.” She smiled slightly. “So... Thank you. For everything.”

Cullen glanced around the table. The demon's scars scorched him. _Friends_ , **brothers**. The words lodged in his throat, preventing him from speaking. He moved his hands from her shoulders to the back of the chair. He gripped it, trying to quell the shaking that began to take his limbs.

It was Sera that broke the silence. “Gough, no need to get all touchy-feely about it.”

The Inquisitor's chuckle was broken by a pained grunt. A few chairs scratched against the floor, many members of the Inner Circle ready to rush to her side. Cullen shifted quickly from behind the chair to crouch beside her. He looked into her bright green eyes, glowing slightly. She shook her head, waving a hand to him. “Sorry, sorry. I may have popped a stitch from all that work in the kitchen.”

Solas stood from his spot and started toward her end of the table, concern angling his brow. He leaned heavily on his staff, his steps awkward from his splinted leg. Cullen held up a hand. They should all be resting. “I will take her, Solas.” The elf's brow furrowed, but he did not object.

Cullen smirked as he moved his arms into the proper positions to lift her from her chair. She should’ve been resting. He should’ve pushed harder, checked on her over the course of the day. He should’ve done more. He was a fool, and she paid the price. He heard another squeak from Cassandra, one from Josephine, and a chuckle from Varric.

The Inquisitor did not fight him, perhaps in too much pain. “Commander! I'll be fine! I was just sitti-”

He shook his head. He hadn’t something before, but he would not make that mistake again. “You are reporting to the healer's tent before you eat dinner.” He nodded to the others as he carried the Inquisitor’s body along the length of the formal dining room.

She was heavier than he remembered. The last time he had carried her this way had been after Haven. She was so cold, so light. Her hand had sparked when he touched her, rattling around his armor. He had scars from the lightning that shocked him, tiny pink webs of lightning under his skin. It had hurt, but she had needed help. And when she muttered his name, when she had expressed her relief at seeing him, he realized she had needed him.

The headache pounded in his head, the fires filling his veins. He took a slow breath and struggled to keep his eyes forward. He could see her hair shifting with his movements out of his peripheral, a deep and vibrant red that filled his dreams when the demons deigned to leave him alone. Hair flowing with the movement of her throwing her head back. Hair that splayed out underneath her. Hair that hung down over him. Hair held in braids as she worked, as she fought, as she struggled.

The scratch of more chairs as he passed by the kitchen staff’s meal. “Your Worship!” He lifted a hand to quiet them and continued through the door at the end of the kitchen.

She grunted slightly as he descended the stairs near the stables. He descended the stairs as gently as he could, but the movements still brought grunts of pain from his charge. As he continued down the stairs, she pushed herself against him in hopes of stabilizing herself. Her scent drifted up to him in the cool night air, herbs and creams. Her bright green eyes closed and she rested her head against his mane. The curvature of her neck was exposed to him, the angle of her upper body giving him the perfect view of her tanned skin. His eyes drifted over her collarbone. The scars started to burn immeasurably hot. He could feel his hands start to shake.

“Commander?” Her voice was small, meant for him alone. He heard the promise of his name under his title.

He swallowed around his Maferath's Knot and shifted his eyes ahead. “Yes, Inquisitor.” Please, don't have noticed.

“I'm sorry. You’re missing the dragon.” He felt her fingers press against the woolen shirt he wore under his armor. The touch burned his lower region, but soothed its way up his chest.

He attempted a cleansing breath as they reached the healer's tents in the lower courtyard. “We’ll just have to take it to your room for you to rest.” She chuckled cautiously at his good-natured jibe. A healer approached him and motioned to an empty cot. “But there is nowhere I would rather be, Inquisitor.”


	12. Sleeping Beauty

In the days following the celebration, the Inquisitor kept herself sequestered in her quarters. Every opportunity, however, she would use her staff as a walking stick and hobble her way to his office. He would return her to her room and leave again, but it only took a few hours for her to return. Her excuse was that she was bored. She needed a distraction. The rest of the Inner Circle was too busy, getting caught up on the things they missed out in the field. Dorian and Solas had plenty of research. Blackwall with his carvings. Sera had Red Jenny business. Bull had to check in with his Chargers. Cassandra had taken to training the troops when she had returned.

He wanted to stop her from leaving her quarters, leaving her resting area, so he gathered up a portion of his work and took over the table they typically supped at. She remained in her bed for the most part, though his work ethic inspired her to sit at her desk on a few occasions. It was comfortable, despite the burning that accompanied her presence, his worry.

Josephine had to remind her she had obligations to the Inquisition, despite her injuries. He returned to his office for those days. The nobles exhausted her and the judgments were stressful. Her body was still recovering, still weak, which meant the full docket Josephine had planned was often cut short so that the Inquisitor could hobble her way back to her quarters and rest.

It took the better part of two weeks for the nobles to dry up, satisfied with their audiences with the Inquisitor. Cullen spent most of that time in his office, taking care of the usual business. His thoughts drifted to her with increasing frequency. When she was out in the field, he could fight them, forget her. She would send letters, the agents would send updates, but she wasn’t close. The burn that accompanied thoughts of her was manageable. But knowing she was injured, knowing she was a short walk from his office to her quarters, knowing how much she hated dealing with so much, knowing how much she would love the distractions. The burn flowed through his veins, causing his hands to shake more often.

Josephine had revealed in their latest War Table meeting that the judgments were complete and most of the nobles were satiated. No one was seeking an audience with the Inquisitor. Cullen gripped his pommel tightly, filing that information away for later. It stayed at the forefront of his thoughts, causing him to read the same report at least three times before he finally dropped it. Gatsi would be arriving with his men to start work on the piles of debris in his room soon. He might as well give in and visit with the Inquisitor.

As he finished gathering up the reports and extra parchment and ink, Gatsi arrived with a few workers. The dwarf had one of those clipboards that Josephine had made popular in Skyhold and wandered to Cullen’s ladder. “So all you want done is the floor on the loft and the debris cleaned up?”

Cullen nodded to him, carefully stuffing the reports and paper into a bag for his trip to the Inquisitor’s room. “Yes please, Mason.” He flipped the top of the bag over.

The dwarf looked up, tilted his head and shifted carefully. “Still got these holes in the roof. It won’t take too much longer to fix those. Inquisition is still low on stone, but I could get a few guys and reshingle the roof.”

Cullen lifted his head to the dwarf. “No thank you, Gatsi. Just the debris in the corner in the loft, the floor, and that corner there.” He motioned to the corner that Liandra typically used, the sheet unsettled from her constantly shifting.

“Must get a lot of weather in your room up there. You sure you don’t want me to get to work on that? It won’t take too much more work.” The dwarf was pushing.

Cullen swung the strap of his bag over his head. The holes in the roof made the tower feel more open. The winds that whistled over the holes reminded him that he was not trapped without upsetting his paperwork. The snow that occasionally fell into his room reminded him of home, of the winters he shared with his family. Reminded him of the mages before the rebellion, when they learned how to control the weathers and it would be a disaster at the beginning. The holes in the roof reminded him of simpler times.

He moved toward the door across from his desk, holding a hand out to sign the work order. “I’ll be fine, Gatsi. Thank you.”

The dwarf shrugged and handed the clipboard to the Commander. Cullen dipped the quill in the ink and flourished his signature quickly. A nod was shared between the men and Cullen exited his tower. He made his way over the bridge that led to the library.

Solas was at his desk in the center of the rotunda. His fingers were tracing one of those strange shards that the band had found in their travels. The song hurt his ears and he wondered how the elves could stand it. The bald elf glanced up to him at his entrance. “Ah, Commander. Did you need something?”

Cullen offered the apostate a smile. “No, thank you, Solas. Have you made any progress on the shards?”

Solas shifted in his large armchair, grunting slightly with the careful movement of his splinted leg. “A fair amount. Your agents have been very helpful in scouting the ruins. I have been meaning to thank you for your assistance.”

Cullen nodded. “Of course, Solas. How is your leg healing?”

Solas glanced downward. “About as well as can be expected, Commander. I appreciate your concern.” He motioned to the pack hanging at Cullen’s side. “Taking a break from your office?”

Cullen looked down and patted the leather bag. “Ah, yes. I thought I would keep the Inquisitor company. I’m sure you know how obstinate she can be when she’s bored.”

The men shared a chuckle. Solas motioned to a book on his table. “I had been meaning to take this to her sooner, something to keep her occupied. Perhaps you could take it for me?”

Cullen felt his eyebrows raise and moved closer to the table. “Of course, of course.” Solas offered the book to him. _Way of the Rift Mage_. “This? I thought she had already concluded her training with Your Trainer.” Poor woman.

Solas lifted his sharp brow. “She and I have been doing further research during our time in the field. We have been adding information into this book together. It is her turn to read my notes and add her own.” Solas tilted his head. “It is a fairly new school of magic, Commander. Do you not think it wise to pool as much research as possible?”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably, the burn tickling his fingers. “I’m sorry if I offended, Solas. You’re doing good work. I was just confused.”

Solas smirked slightly. Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if he had been baited. “I appreciate you taking that to her. I am sure she will enjoy your company.”

Cullen nodded slightly and turned to the door that led to the main hall. He waved with his free hand and made his escape.

As the door opened, Cullen felt the headache pressing in. The noise of the main hall, of chatter and plates and eating utensils and soft music from a small band, swirled around his head, filling his ears. It was too much on most days and this day was no different. How the Inquisitor could handle it was beyond him. How she managed to sit on the throne every day and pass judgments, how she could visit with nobility and not manage to anger every single one of them. He was glad that he had been relegated to the Inquisition’s forces. He would never survive all the things the Inquisitor had to.

He had turned toward the back of the hall, toward the throne, when he realized the dwarf had not greeted him. Cullen furrowed his brow and turned back to Varric’s corner of the main hall. The fireplace was lit, the dwarven height chairs and table all empty. Not even the usual stack of papers and ledgers littered the area. While he was thankful for the reprieve, he couldn’t help but wonder where the dwarf had gone.

Cullen continued his path through the main hall to the Inquisitor’s door. He took a deep breath and lifted the hand with the book, turning to knock with the knuckles. He pulled his hand back and the door opened.

Varric looked up to the Commander. “Oh, hey there, Curly.”

So that was where he had gone. “Afternoon, Varric.” Cullen pressed his lips together. The dwarf was an opponent Cullen rarely knew how to spar with.

The dwarf moved forward, forcing Cullen to angle himself to allow Varric passage. “Come to keep Spitfire busy, I take it?”

Cullen nodded slightly. He measured the dwarf’s interest, weighed his words carefully. “I know how bored she gets without anything to do. I thought perhaps a bit of work, a bit of light reading might cheer her up.”

Varric glanced at the book at Cullen’s side. “I might’ve brought her something different to read, maybe made something myself.” He looked up to the Commander. “You really think bringing her more work will make her feel better, Curly?”

Cullen felt the heat rise on his cheeks. His eyes shifted to the door to her quarters. He didn’t want to remain in his office, not with the workers there now. But where else could he go? “The work isn’t for her. It’s mine. But she enjoys the company, I should think.”

Varric chuckled below him. “Oh, I think she’ll love the company.” The dwarf shifted forward and tapped the Commander’s hip with his good hand. “You have a good night, Curly.”

With that, Varric made his way through the main hall. Cullen narrowed his eyes at the dwarf’s crimson back. The dwarf often had a way of saying things, wording them so they sounded innocent enough, but disguised his actual meaning. There had been a lot of that in the last two comments. The dwarf disappeared from view, releasing the Commander from his suspicions.

He slid through the door and closed it behind him. The center of the tower that led up to the Inquisitor’s apartment was still in need of repair, with holes in the roof similar to his. He made his way around the outside of the tower to the staircase that led up into her room.

As he crested the top of the stairs, he expected to see her resting at her desk or sitting at the table in her room. His eyes fell on the table by the stairs, empty save for a pair of place settings. She had probably shared a meal with Varric. He lifted his gaze to the desk across the room. It was also empty. He frowned. Varric could’ve told him if she were actually resting in her bed. Though she rarely enjoyed laying on her bed unless it was to sleep, a point of contention among them on his previous visits. She needed to be resting, and sitting was not resting.

He looked to the bed, checking for her sleeping form. There was a small lump under the thick comforters that protected her from the cold. Her ears peeked out over her shoulder, her red hair fanned out behind her on the pillows. He raised his eyebrows, watching her stir ever so slightly, watching her body raise and fall with her breathing. He should go, he should let her sleep.

His fingers started to burn, the strap suddenly choking him. He looked to the book in his hands and stepped closer to the table to set it down. The bag was removed, hung on the back of the chair, and his eyes moved to the Inquisitor again. Her ears twitched at his movements, at the rattle of his armor, the creak of leather, the rustling of fabric. But she did not wake.

He should really let her rest.

He could work quietly, could still keep her company. She would probably need someone to help her when she woke. His work only required silent reading and the scratch of a quill, neither of which would be enough to wake her. Though, with the temperature in the room and the noise his armor made, maybe it would be best if he returned to his office. No, his office was too busy. Or perhaps the library. Or the formal dining room.

She squeaked in her sleep, forcing Cullen to freeze. Would she be upset if she found him in here? He should probably go. His eyes fell on the bag, and his throat closed immediately, that choking feeling that made him take it off returning.

Perhaps it would be better if he removed his armor. He could remain and stay quiet. He glanced to her and started the process of removing his vambraces. He made sure to work as quietly as possible.

His armor was placed gingerly on the couch by the stairs. He was very careful not to make too much noise as he removed it. She took no notice of his actions. His fingers burned, ached, when he noticed how close he had gotten to her. He tilted his head, taking in the small portion of her that he could see.

Her bright green eyes were closed, and he could just make out the straps of a shirt over her shoulders. An undershirt for summer, he realized. It left much of her skin exposed. The fires lit behind his eyes as they trailed over the curve of her neck, the angle of her collarbone, the line between her-

He grunted at the flare, squeezing his eyes closed, his gloves lifting to his temples. Rylen would need information on the chef he would be sending to bolster the men’s spirits. New supplies may be requested by the chef. There was another report from Korbin, one from Katari, one from Ryon. The flames died down, a relief filling him instead.

He opened his eyes to the Inquisitor. He shouldn’t be here in her room. Not like this. He had come to keep her company, to talk more about the Inquisition’s business and maybe discuss the nobles she had dealt with. He felt wrong being in her room without her knowledge, without her permission. For all he knew, that tank top was all she wore under the comforter.

He swallowed again, looking to the table. He should go. Collect his things and find a quiet spot somewhere else in Skyhold. His eyes drifted back to the Inquisitor, lying on her side. Her hand rested on her hip, at an angle to avoid the sensitive area on her side. He felt the fire again, but it didn’t hurt. His eyes trailed up the vallaslin on her face, following the curves. They contrasted with the angle of her brow, softer in her sleep. Her scars were shrouded by her face pressed into the pillow. His fingers twitched, burned, ached to trace it, to memorize it.

Leliana would be looking for an answer. Josephine had invited them to a meeting and Cullen had been vehement about not attending. Leliana had stepped in, demanded that he show the Ambassador the same considerations he showed to the rest of the Inner Circle. Besides, the Spymaster couldn’t make it and someone had to.

He took a step toward the bed, then another. As he moved, he heard the creak of the wood under his boots. Her ears twitched slightly at the noise. He closed the distance and crouched down in front of her.

Her left hand glowed slightly on her hip. He caught sight of it, the scar on his chest burning gently. He had been so worried then. So afraid for her. His eyes drifted back to her face. He had been reckless, suggesting that they destroy Haven. Dorian had been right, he was thinking like a blood mage. But it had been her that offered herself rather than the entirety of Haven. It had been her that reminded him that there was something to live for. That all life was valuable.

She had helped him restore his faith in himself.

His legs started to shake under him and he stood with the help of her nightstand. He felt suddenly lightheaded and moved to sit on the bed beside her. He never knew when or what his body would object to, what would incite another fit. His legs continued to shake, his arms suddenly weak, his stomach churning what he had eaten for lunch. If it had been hers, maybe he wouldn’t want to expel it so forcefully.

Her brow furrowed as the bed started to quiver with his fit. He tried to calm himself, wishing for his pommel, wishing for anything to grab and focus on. Her ears twitched as his breath came in shallow gasps, as his vision blurred for a moment.

She squeaked in her slumber, upset by his fit, but too deep into the Fade to wake. He thanked the Maker that his fit, his shaking had died down enough to let her rest. She deserved it more than anyone. The Inner Circle had not been injured nearly as much as she, a fact he contended with since the first time she returned from the field injured.

She had come back from Therinfal with bandages covering various extremities. Her staff had looked a bit worse for wear, her armor covered in fresh scratches and tears. But he had seen a change in her. He had wanted to talk with her then, discuss what had happened. Losing Ser Barris had affected her more than she let on, but she had been more worried for the Commander.

He lifted his hand, watched it move toward her face. He had wanted to hold her then, hold her after Therinfal, after Haven, after Adamant. He had wanted to hold her and keep her safe, as she sacrificed herself to keep others safe. He wanted to be her shield so that she wouldn’t have to hold her side, so that she wouldn’t have to see the healers once a day, so that she wouldn’t have to spend time in the garden or on her balconies just staring. So she wouldn’t have to sit alone on a dock over a frozen lake. He wanted to hold her without burning, without gossip, without mockery.

His fingers curled into a fist and he drew it back. The scars behind his eyes were shooting pain through his skull, lighting the pain that flooded his body. He really should get back to the escort for Ser Ruth, to the news from Adamant, to the situation in Wycome.

He took a deep breath, calming the fires, and stood from the bed. The mattress shifted slightly as his weight left it and he heard the Inquisitor stir. She rolled slowly, carefully, onto her back, her arm lifting to rest by her head. He followed it, then followed the angle of it back down to her shoulder, her collar bone, her chest.

The fires burned again. He was still a man, still felt the lingering hunger. He didn’t want to, was reminded of Kinloch with every thought, but he couldn’t stop it any longer. They were so close, he and the Inquisitor. She spent so much time with him, so much time laughing, giggling, melancholy, hopeful. She shared so much of herself, took on so much of him. He had often wondered if she had been this beautiful when he had met her. If her hair had been that vibrant, if her eyes had been so green, if her scent had been so overpowering.

The fires had been consuming him often of late, which was why he had spent so much time working. He was trying to fight them, trying to cool them, trying to avoid thinking about her. It was beyond difficult. He still had to work with her, still worried over her, was still her friend. The scars had started to fade in severity recently. He tilted his head as she moaned in her sleep.

He turned away, back to the table. He glanced to his armor. He had made the commitment to remain here when he removed his armor. He closed the distance to the table and gently lifted up the bag that contained his work. Hall and Ser Belinda had been spending a lot of time together, was that something he should foster?

The rustling of his papers as he pulled them from the bag, the scratch of the chair on the wood floor, the pop of the stopper from the inkwell, all of it was entirely too loud. He glanced to the sleeping form of the Inquisitor after every noise, wishing that she stayed asleep, that she continued to rest. Every scratch of his quill reminded him that he should go, that she was sleeping, that she should be alone.

But then he heard a gentle snore. He looked to the culprit, her lips parted slightly. She snored again and he felt the smile tug at his scar.

No, he’d stay.


	13. Sharing is Caring

A gentle touch to his shoulder pulled him from the Fade, ripped him from the visions of red and green and giggles. He lifted his head and turned to the hand, followed it up to her face. She smiled down to him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as he tried to blink his away.

“Inquisitor!” Why couldn’t he just use her name?

“Good evening, Commander.” She pulled her robe tighter around her middle. The fire must’ve gone out over the course of her nap. “You must’ve been in here a while. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

He tore his eyes away from her curly hair to the windows. The sun had set some time ago. His eyes shifted down to his work. He was on his fifth letter before exhaustion took him. “I’m terribly sorry, Inquisitor, I was going to… offer you some company but you were asleep and-”

Her fingers graced his shoulder again, lighting the fires of his scars. “Commander, you are more than welcome. You should’ve alerted me, we could’ve spent this time talking instead of sleeping.” Her brow furrowed and her hand slipped from his shoulder. “Though, I do wonder why you stayed. This work couldn’t have been done in your office?”

She hadn’t wanted him to stay. They were friends. He looked to the quill, to the inkwell. He found the stopper and plugged the inkwell. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I… I didn’t meant to intrude.”

He heard the chair he usually occupied scratch over the wooden floor. “Intrude? Never.” She turned the book Solas had offered him. “Ah, it’s my turn to add to the compendium.” She motioned to his quill and ink. “Mind if I borrow that, Commander?”

His brow furrowed. Was he wrong? “Not at all, Inquisitor. But I thought-”

She accepted the inkwell from him and checked the quill. “I said you’re more than welcome, Commander, and I meant it. I just know you are usually in your office to do your work.” She pulled the stopper from the inkwell. “I just found it a bit odd that you were here, armor over there, napping on your latest letter.”

She was probing him, he could hear it. She always wanted to give him the chance to keep his secrets, to ask without pushing. He looked down to his letter. “I…” It was supposed to be a surprise, a gift for her service. To the Inquisition. And to him. “I was actually going to return to my office, but your room is so quiet.” He looked to the cold fireplace. “And it used to be warm.”

Her eyebrows piqued and she looked to the wood. “ _Fenedhis_. I need more wood.” She moved to stand, a small grunt escaping her at the motion. She muttered another curse.

Cullen pushed the chair back and stood from the table. He heard her sink back into the chair as he used a brush to move some of the ashes from the center. He grabbed more firewood from the stack by the fireplace and arranged them in the hearth. It was a simple task, domestic. He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up.

“Commander?” He hummed. “Could I trouble you to bring me my road journal? It should still be in my pack.”

His brow furrowed. “You haven’t unpacked yet?”

She chuckled carefully from the table. He was glad that she could do so without pain again. “Haven’t really found the time, I guess. I was so excited about the dragon meat – I mean, how often would I get the chance to cook it? And everyone was so excited at the prospect.” He could feel her grin, could see her practically bouncing at the table. He felt the smirk tug at his scar. “I hope there was enough for everyone to try. And the staff. I felt so bad that there wasn’t more to share with them.”

He found her pack and grabbed the leather strap. She had been so damaged, so injured when she returned. She had worked anyway, powered through the pain and struggled to get the dinner made. She had sacrificed and portioned to make sure everyone had a chance to try some. And she had popped her stitches, started bleeding again. All because she wanted to give of herself.

“There was more than enough, Inquisitor. In fact, when I returned to retrieve dinner for the two of us, Sera was handing out extra helpings to some of the other servants. I believe I caught Maryden sneaking a plate as well.” How much had her clan missed out on by shunning her?

He placed her pack on the table and her hand moved toward it immediately. Her fingers brushed his gloves and he felt the spark of her mark. He stifled the gasp, but she caught the jolt. “Commander, are you all right?”

He nodded slightly, glancing to the green glow of her hand. “Yes, of course. Do you need anything else?”

She looked to her pack, then to his papers. “Creators, I’m sorry, Commander. There’s not enough quills for us both. I’ll start the fire for us if you collect a spare inkwell and quill from my desk. Is that fair?”

He tilted his head. How long had Gatsi said it would take to repair his loft and clear out the debris? “Of course, Inquisitor.”

As he turned away, he watched her lift a hand. The wood in the fireplace caught and a blaze flared to life. He took care to draw the iron mesh screens closed to prevent any stray sparks from jumping into the rest of the room. This was what controlled magic could do, what it could be used for. How many mages were this responsible with their curse, their gift, their magic?

The inkwell and quill were difficult to find under the haphazard stacks that littered the Inquisitor’s desk. He heard the slap of the top of her pack against the table and glanced up to watch her remove a few articles of clothing. Things she probably wore under her armor. A once bright yellow undershirt was brown with blood, littered with tears and scorch marks. He should’ve been there.

His brow furrowed. He should’ve been there? He never ventured into the field with her. She was more than capable, that much was obvious from Adamant, from Haven, from Therinfal. Maker, she survived a varterral. What good would it have done to have another shield there?

He could’ve protected her better than Blackwall or Cassandra. Another shield might’ve prevented the broken arms or legs, the singed arms, the wounds that needed stitching. If he had been there, he could’ve prevented her from venturing so close to the Fade. Because he knows her. Because he would’ve been throwing himself in as much danger as she did, but he would’ve taken it for her. As he hadn’t yet.

He found the inkwell, found another quill. That was his duty. He advised, he gave orders, he ran things from his desk. His weapons were ink and quill and parchment and words. He made his way across the room, in front of the fire. He made his way into the training pit rather often, made his way to sparring matches with Cassandra and Bull and the Chargers. But he was never in any _real_ danger. Hadn’t been for some time. His brow furrowed as he set the bottle and feather on the table.

“Commander?” Her voice was laced with concern.

He looked to the Inquisitor, to her bright green eyes, her vibrant red hair, her plump pink lips. The fires lit under his skull and he raised his eyebrows. Don’t let her see. “Yes?”

Her brow furrowed, turning the quill horizontal. “You’ve been wearing that serious expression a lot more lately.”

Another open question. She wanted to know, but not if he wanted to keep it from her. She was there to listen, but only if he was willing to share. He offered her a weary smile. “Sorry. There’s a particular campaign I’m worried about.” He dropped into the seat he had claimed. “Trying to think of all the strategies.”

She smiled to him, that smile that knew he was being purposely evasive. “You’re the best chess player in Skyhold, Commander. You’ll figure something out.” He nodded absently. She chuckled and tilted her head. “Unless I should consider Mia as a replacement?”

He heard the laugh before he registered the humor. He placed his hand on the table, somewhere between her and himself. He leveled his smile on her. “I should think not.”

She shrugged and turned the pages in her road journal. “Have you written her back, Commander?”

Right. She had seen the letter he had written to her. The short one. She had been so disappointed in him, disappointed that he would only write three sentences. But it had been difficult to write those few. “I… thought I might when I had more to tell her.”

The Inquisitor flipped a page over and back, checking the contents. “You have plenty to tell her. Like how the Inquisitor felled a dragon, how you’re making friends, how… you’ve left the Order, perhaps. Does she know that?” Her eyes lifted to him and her fingers started to play with the feather of the quill.

He frowned slowly. He caught her fingers dancing over the feather. They had been so proud of him when he was accepted, when he left. They had loved to hear about his time in the Order when they were smaller, when he had something to say about their sister. When he could write letters about the mischief the recruits would get into or what they were learning that day or week.

But those were innocuous letters from a boy to his home. After his first Harrowing, he had written less. After the first failed Harrowing, when he had been there to see what truly happened to mages when they were possessed, it had taken him weeks to respond. He had been so terrified when they had made him attend his sister’s Harrowing. He never wanted to tell them about the blood magic or the demons or the torture. Which was why Mia had not known when he had moved to Kirkwall. Which was why Mia had not been told when he joined the Inquisition. He wanted so much to separate himself.

“I will have to think on it.” Anything he wrote had the potential to be intercepted by the enemy. What if he mentioned something that got their agents killed?

He pulled the stopper from the inkwell. The Inquisitor turned to a page marked in the book Solas had offered him. “I suppose you haven’t written the Hero of Ferelden either.”

A long dark scratch appeared on the parchment. He took a moment to stare at it. The quill was lifted slowly. “Not as yet, no.”

She propped the quill up on the inkwell. “You never told me more about her.” He watched her arms fold over the table and she leaned forward. Her robe fell open slightly and he felt the flames wash through him, lingering around his groin.

He cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “She… was a mage in Kinloch. What more is there to say?” Don’t let her notice, don’t let her see.

The Inquisitor tilted her head, her hair shifting and falling through the middle of her robe. “You said you had an infatuation with her. I was wondering how that was possible. From what I understand, mages and Templars aren’t allowed to have much contact.”

He furrowed his brow, willing his eyes away from her chin but they did not obey. “We didn’t. I-I mean, they’re not.” Commander of the Inquisition, are you really cut out for the job?

The Inquisitor smirked to him. She enjoyed teasing him. “Oh-ho. So it was just a physical attraction then?”

He straightened his back, taking umbrage with her accusation. “The Hero of Ferelden was… lovely, yes, but that wasn’t what drew me to her. I am not so base as to allow a pretty face and a pair of sashaying hips distract me from my duties.” He shook his head. “We… were alone frequently in the quiet of the library. Or a study room. I got to talking with her – mostly at her behest. She…” His eyebrows lifted as he noticed the shade of her eyes change. They were still green, but they had dimmed, flecked with brown. “She wanted to learn more about the Templar that kept his eye on her the most. She had seen me reading some of the same recreational books that she enjoyed, wanted to know how I felt about them.”

The Inquisitor looked down to her book. “And your infatuation, the one the demon used, grew from that?”

Her eyes had gone dark, almost brown. His brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember if they had ever done that before, but he was sure they had dimmed. “It… I believe so, yes. That’s why it was her and no one else…” He stretched his hand between them, reaching for her. She caught the movement and looked up to him again. Her eyes were brown. “Inquisitor, your eyes-”

She raised a hand to her cheeks. “Creators, what happened? I can’t see them. Are they bleeding?”

He shook his head. “No, they… have changed color. Are you all right?”

She blinked, her brow furrowing. “I… What color are they?”

He tilted his head. He could study her now without feeling inappropriate. He relished in it, searching her eyes, her lips, her scars. He wanted to memorize her while he had the chance. “They look… brown? Hazel?” Flecks of green and gold among a rich creamed coffee. The color swirled around her pupils as they adjusted to the light in the room, as they equally examined him.

She chuckled slightly at his assessment. “That’s my natural color.” Her left land lifted, the faint green glow missing from it. “They’re green because of this.” Her eyes shifted down to the book as her hand fell again.

She was suspiciously calm. “You knew?”

Her eyes lifted again. “Of all the things wrong with me, Commander, you’re worried about my eye color? Do you not like it?” She was trying to be playful, but he heard the pain it masked.

The Hero of Ferelden’s eyes had been brown, but just a rich earthy brown. Her hair had been dark brown. The Inquisitor was nothing like her, physically. Not even in her natural eye color. “I just… was worried. I’m still worried. Why- How does it affect you that way?”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “Solas had no real explanation. It got worse after Corypheus Touched it. And again after I specialized in this school of magic with Your Trainer.”

He lowered his eyes to her hand, watched as she recovered the quill and dipped it in the ink. “It would be easy to link the change to the Anchor you now wield.” She hummed in confirmation. “I’ve heard of magic that could alter your appearance, but it was usually voluntary shapeshifts. Like turning into a bear or a spider. But… That was purposeful. This is not. Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded absently as she started to scribble notes from her journal into the book. “I have no control over it, Commander. The only thing I can hope for is that it doesn’t bother you overmuch.”

She was angry. His ears slid back. He was a fool. “Maker, I’m sorry. It doesn’t bother me. As I said, I worry about your well-being, Inquisitor.” Her eyes lifted to him. He offered her a tense smile. “I think your eyes are lovely.” _Liandra_. Just say her name. What is so hard about it?

Her eyes brightened slightly. “Thank you… Commander.” He watched her cheeks flush slightly before returning to her work. “But don’t think you distracted me from our discussion.” She pointed at him for a moment with the quill. “We were discussing the Hero of Ferelden.”

He felt his cheeks flush and raised a hand to the back of his neck. “Ah, yes. I…”

She chuckled easily and shook her head. “I’m only teasing. I don’t want you to… call up any dark memories. I just… was wondering what made her special.” She cleared her throat and looked to her road journal. “To you.” The quill scratched along the book’s page. “It’s good to know that you take romance seriously, I suppose.” She glanced between journal and book.

His brow furrowed. She was worried her line of inquiry would cause another episode. But that last bit, romance? He felt his heart jump into his throat. The scars smoldered, a warmth that filled him rather than hurt. “What about you, Inquisitor?”

She lifted her gaze. “Hm? What about me?”

He tore his eyes away to his quill. He shifted it to dip it into the ink. “You ask about my previous… infatuation. It’s only fair that you reveal yours, hm?”

Her eyes fell to the side and he could feel the shift in mood. Her ears sagged, her eyes dimmed again, and she set her jaw. “Just… once. He was a, uhm… He was a warrior. A bodyguard for the Keeper when we would encounter unsavories. His weapon of choice was a greatsword. I always… was impressed by him. I tried to get to know him but… There wasn’t much there.” She took a breath. This was painful for her. He wanted to stop her, to tell her she didn’t have to. “It was made **very** clear to me that I had no place looking for a mate. He… ended up with one of the women taking care of the children.” She returned to the scratching of her quill.

Her eyes remained on the page. He could see the pain she was in, the pain she wanted to hide but couldn’t, not from him. He wanted to take her in his arms, to apologize, to comfort. “Why did they tell you that?” But the anger built.

She swallowed. “Touched by the Fade and all that. Don’t need us mages reproducing, making more. Dangerous enough with the ones we got. Stuff like that.” She forced a single laugh through her nose.

He drew his hand into a fist. That was something he might’ve said after Kinloch. Something he was not proud of. “That is a horrible thing to say. And not true.”

She looked up to him, her brow furrowed. Her face relaxed slightly and she smiled to him, however weakly. “Commander, it’s all right.”

He looked to his reports, to his letters. “That is the kind of thinking that needs to be removed from the world. It is people like that that started the Mage-Templar War in the first place.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

She nodded to him, her ears lifting slightly. “I’m glad that you left the Order, Commander, if that is the kind of thinking that you had fed to you on a daily basis.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m glad you were able to overcome it.”

He glanced to her. Every compliment warmed him, soothed his tremors. He nodded slightly. “I thank the Maker every day for bringing to me the Inquisition.” _To you_.

She smiled brightly, the color returning to her eyes. “We have made something amazing here, Commander.”

He felt her smile burn in his chest, light the fires under his skull. When had the fires stopped hurting? When had he started to accept them?

She returned to her writings. Cullen cleared his throat and looked to his letter. Getting back to work was much easier.

\---

When she was finally well enough to limp around Skyhold without her staff, he had brought her to his office to show her the repairs. She was grateful for the changes. She turned on him, a bright smile on her features, crinkling her bright green eyes. He had watched the emotions shift on her face, watched as her hands, curled into joyous fists under her chin, shook in uncertainty. She wanted to hug him, to show her appreciation, but something held her back. Instead she turned around to the desk and chair that he had moved into the corner for her. His neck had been very itchy while she looked it over.

Of course she didn’t know what to do. This was usually where a woman would hug their friend. But she was Dalish. And he was the Commander. It was awkward. He was such a fool.

She limped behind the desk and carefully sat in the chair. “Would it be all right if I shared your office, Commander?”

His hand fell, his neck straightened. “Shared…?” Maybe he wasn’t such a fool. “Why here? You have your desk in your room. And if you’re looking for a new office, there are plenty of areas in Skyhold. Or company? I’m sure Josephine or Leliana-”

She shook her head, eyes falling to the desk. “Josephine has her meetings with nobles. I’m sure it would be easier to have me in there, but Josephine prefers to run interference. I’m not very skilled with the nobles, as you well know. And Leliana has her birds. Those birds are quite loud. She has secrets that she need not share with me. Your office is quiet.” She chuckled nervously. “I’d probably get more work done, actually. I spend so much time in here anyway, all my work is left in my quarters. I rarely get through most of it before bedtime, usually.” She cleared her throat. “It’s a silly idea. Forget I mentioned it. This is wonderful, though. I appreciate it.” She lifted her head, motioned directly above her. “At least you repaired your room.”

He watched her point to the second floor, but he kept his gaze on her. He hadn’t meant to refuse. He had cleaned up the office, had the desk and chair brought in specifically for her. He had wanted her here more often, wanted her to be comfortable. He was worse than a fool. He was an _idiot_. “You are more than welcome to share my office, Inquisitor.”

Her chin fell and she blinked to him. “Truly?”

He felt the heat in his cheeks. “Of course. Besides, it will be easier for Solas to discuss your book.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting while he worked. A comment was made about the books on Dalish culture and language in his loft. He had stammered out a lie about the Dalish agents they had in the Inquisition. She had merely hummed, agreeing that she had read the Chant of Light for the same reason. She had stayed at her desk for most of the day, but had limped closer when he had a question that required her to look at the map on his desk. He had insisted she sit in the chair behind his desk after that, in case he needed her advice again.

As the day wore on, her idle chatter faded. He only noticed when he had gotten through at least three reports without some comment or question from her. He lowered the report he had been reading and looked back to the chair behind him. She had dozed off. If he had stairs, he might carry her to his bed to allow her to rest easier.

It wouldn’t be long before she would be fully recovered from her encounter with a High Dragon. She was left with a few bruises, another batch of scars that he wanted nothing more than to catalogue some chilly morning in his bed. He felt the scars behind his eyes light, felt the hate burble up at the thought. Those thoughts were the ones that hurt. The others, when he spent time with her, he fires were almost soothing.

She would be sharing his office. That burning would fill his veins. Would he be able to endure them? Would she enjoy sharing his office if she were actually here to work? She used his office as an escape, as a way to avoid the rest of her duties, her friends, the people in Skyhold. It was all so loud to her. Which was why he had chosen this office. It was quiet. It kept him close, but far enough away to relax.

Perhaps when she recovered a bit more, he would take her to his boyhood place of solitude. Their talks about her place in her clan, about her love of solitude, reminded him so much of his own home, his own desire for peace and quiet. He had snuck away on several occasions after the events in Ferelden's Circle to listen to the water lapping at the rocks outside of Kinloch Hold. It reminded him of simpler times, when his only worries were beating his sister at chess and if he had shown enough potential to join the Templars. The last time he had been out there, even to see his family in person, had been the day he left to become a Templar. The day his brother gave him that Andrastian medallion.  
  
Shuddered breaths alerted him to the Inquisitor's stirring. His brow furrowed when he focused on her, shivering and trying to catch her breath. Her head shook with the dream. He moved closer and crouched in front of her, as she had done for him. He wished it were easier to remove his gloves, so that he might touch her, give her something to focus on, to ground her in this plane. He settled for resting his gloved hands on her knees, causing a forced exhale and she opened her eyes. The green irises darted to and fro. Her eyes eventually fell on him and focused slowly, recognizing him. Her shivers stilled, her breathing returning to normal.  
  
He offered her a tense smile. “And here I thought I was the only one with bad dreams.” It was a thank you for her part in helping him recover before.  
  
She chuckled, her voice scratchy from her nap. “I doubt anyone in this keep has good dreams, Commander.”

He patted her knees. “Are you all right? Do you wish to speak of it?”

She nodded slowly to him, raising a hand to rub her eyes. “S'just a dream. I'm fine now.”  
  
He stood. The fire had moved to his limbs. He had to distance himself. “Inquisitor, when you've recovered a bit more, before you return to the field, I have somewhere I need to take you.” Her brow furrowed. “We have some dealings in Ferelden and I was hoping you might accompany me.”  
  
She shifted in the chair to be more comfortable. “Do I need to be there for any specific reason? Is something wrong?”  
  
He shook his head. She had every right to be suspicious. “What? No! I would rather explain there. If that's all right with you.”  
  
She chuckled. “I trust you, Commander.”  
  
The scars burned again. “Indeed. I will make the necessary arrangements.”


	14. Not A Date

He stood behind her as she dismounted her halla. A signal sent to the troops watching them was all it took for them to scatter. He motioned to the dock, overrun with vines in the absence of his family, a few pieces of wood eaten away by water damage. It had taken some convincing, but he had been able to keep the Inquisitor out of her armor, though his concession had been to allow her her staff. The catalyst for her abilities remained on the halla behind them. He smiled as the halla sniffed at his horse, tilting its antlers down toward it. The horse backed away slightly, alarmed at the posturing. He chuckled a bit as he followed her to the end of the dock. At least she wasn’t limping.

“Where are we?” Her head turned to her left, her body following to allow her a full circle.

He smirked as they passed an underwater trap. There was so much he wanted to tell her. “This was my escape when I was a boy.” Her brow lifted to him and he nodded. “I loved my family, but they were very loud. I used to come out here to escape them.” He leaned against the post at the end of the dock. “Your brush with the dragon reminded me of something. Every time you leave Skyhold, it is to enter the field, to throw yourself into danger. And when you aren't doing that, you're at Skyhold, surrounded by so many walls and people. With the sheer volume of people at Skyhold, most of them wanting your attention, I thought perhaps we could share my boyhood escape. Especially now that you share my office.”

She smiled warmly to him and drifted in his direction, closer to him. “Thank you, Commander. Did you have to come here often?”

He shrugged and placed his hands on the pommel of his sword. He wanted to touch her. “Perhaps not as often as you wandered the wilds. I came here to clear my head, primarily. But my family always found me. I think it was my sister that came here to retrieve me the most.”

She giggled and he tightened his grip on his pommel. “After everything you put her through, I couldn't imagine her being the one to look for you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, Maker, no! Not Mia. My youngest sister. I was the second, Mia and my brother first and third, and he was followed by my younger sister. She loved me very much, always wanted to be at my side.” His eyes shifted to the lake. “Mia and I were the fiercest of rivals, always at odds over one thing or another. My brother and I played pranks as much as possible, enjoyed rough-housing and the going to the Chantry. But my youngest sister... She was the light I needed to find my calling.”

The Inquisitor stiffened beside him. “Did you ever find out what happened to her?”

He smiled to her. He had been wanting to share this with her since he revealed the truth about his sister to her at their first dinner. He had never been ready. “She passed her Harrowing but was sent to another Circle shortly before the Blight.” His brow furrowed and he looked to the water. “After the rebellion, after everything, I wonder what truly happened to her...”

The Inquisitor moved closer to him, a hand on his upper arm. He felt only the pauldrons on his shoulder press against him and wondered why he had not convinced himself to remain out of his armor as well. “You could send the Inquisition to look for her.”

He nodded. She had done so much good in the name of the Inquisition. She had done so much to help. Her first inclination at his musings was to offer her help, offer a solution, offer something that would provide peace of mind or just ensure the safety of his family. He felt the warmth spread through him. “I had considered it. But I fear that sending Inquisition forces looking for one mage in the middle of the war would send the wrong message.”

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes. “We’ve sent agents to look for mages before. For Josephine, for Cole, for…” Her eyes narrowed, struggling to remember. “Others.” He almost giggled. She raised a hand. “Look, regardless, if you want to look for her, there should be nothing stopping you.”

The warmth spread through him again and he let his eyes roam her features. There was something stopping him; fear of her fate. If she had been killed, at the Conclave or traveling, he would know. There would be a certainty that he did not have now. There were so many things he wanted to know but was afraid to have the answer. As long as he didn’t ask, he could hold out hope.

He took a cleansing breath. She just wanted to help. “I suppose you’re right, Inquisitor. She was always a model charge, obeying the Templars in the tower, at the top of her classes. She was very resourceful. I think having me there was a boon to her, someone from home to talk to, to ground her.” He glanced to the Inquisitor. “It wasn't until I started taking lyrium that I realized how dangerous being a mage could be.” The back of his neck itched from his furs. He reached a hand up to scratch it. “How mages cope with being so closely connected to the Fade... I can’t help but admire the ones that survive, that remain true. Like you.” She lifted her eyes to him, ears raising slightly. “A-and my sister.”

The Inquisitor's gaze dropped to the water as it lapped lazily against the dock. She moved back toward the box across from him and shifted the lantern onto the dock. The box now free, she turned her back to it and jumped up onto it. He couldn't help but notice the bounce of her chest as she moved. His eye twitched at the pain in his skull.

“You've had a run-in with a few demons yourself, you should know exactly what it's like.” His eyebrows raised. “It's all a matter of will. I can feel them, feel the demons and the spirits of the Fade preying on me in moments of weakness... I feel them preying on you.” Her eyes drifted off his eyes, lower. “But I know the dangers, I know what they prey on and how they possess you. Even if the Keeper did not want me to become her First, she recognized my talents as a Fade-touched. She nurtured them, but also protected me, gave me the tools and knowledge I needed to protect myself.” Maker her eyes had shifted lower. “I came out stronger because of her rejection, though. I had no one to take care of me after my Blood Writing ceremony, no one to mentor me, to keep an eye on me.” Her eyes lifted and he knew she was focused on his lips. Could he endure? “I had the tools to protect myself and I became very adept at doing so.” A smile crinkled her eyes. “With a big brother like you, I'm sure your sister did the same.”

He stood from the post and moved closer to her, but did not close the gap. “I’m sure it was more than me, Inquisitor. She was in the Circle far longer than I was a Templar.” She tilted her head slightly. “Mages are not allowed to have contact with their family outside the Circle, but Templars can. The Order never feared for them, only connected to the Fade through the use of lyrium, trained and trapped. Most of them were volunteers, were the arm of the Chantry. The letters I wrote to my family and they wrote to me were shared with my sister, despite the rules against it.” Her eyebrows shot up. He chuckled. “It's true! I broke some of the Order's rules. Not very many, mind, but some.”

Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Well, I never, Commander.”

He chuckled slightly. Being here at this lake brought back so many memories. So much time he had spent and lost with his family. Of the medallion his brother had given him. “Though there was one thing I rarely shared with her.” He reached into the pouch at this waist and produced his Andraste medallion. He shared so much with the Inquisitor, it felt right to share this with her as well. “My brother gave me this the day I left to become a Templar. He said it was for luck, but I knew it just happened to be in his pocket at the time.” He held it out to her. She took the medallion and turned it over in her hands. “Templars are not supposed to carry such things as our faith should see us through. But I dared not part with it. It was the only thing that tied me, grounded me to myself through the training, and especially through the lyrium. By keeping it, I helped myself and my sister keep our sanity.” He furrowed his brow. “And our lives...”

The Inquisitor ran her thumb over it. “Even if it was just in his pocket at the time, it seems to have brought you luck.” She offered it back to him.

“I daresay it has. It kept me alive, guided me to you.” He coughed and felt the burn in his chest. “Guided me to the Inquisition. To the right path.” He started to reach for it, but thought better of it. He no longer needed luck, cooped up in his office in Skyhold all day. But her? He closed her fingers around it, willing his fingers not to shake as the burning flowed down his arms. “I want you to keep it. Perhaps it will give you the luck it gave me. Maker knows you need it.” _So that it might return you to me, as it has guided me to you_ , he did not add aloud. Instead, he offered a playful chuckle.

Her brow furrowed and she removed her hand from his grasp. “I can't take something so sentimental to you.” He felt the weight of his armor, almost unable to carry it. Rejection. Of course. They were friends. “Especially not when it's brought you so much luck.” Her ears sagged slightly. His hands moved before he could stop them. He always wondered about the elves’ expressive ears. “I- The Inquisition still needs you. I wouldn't want your luck to run out.”

His gloved fingers traced the outside of her ear. Her eyes rolled back as the lids closed around them and she moved with his hand. “Nor do I...” She moaned gently as he traced the tips of her ears, the noise calling something deep within him he thought long dead. He swallowed hard and his hand dropped away. The fires were burning, scorching him. “Not when I finally have some.” She wasn’t rejecting him, she was being kind. A kindness he didn’t deserve.

She cleared her throat and offered him the medallion, cheeks and ears flushed. He lowered his gaze, accepting the medallion back from her. It felt heavier. They needed a change of subject, a distraction from the foolishness he had engaged in. “I suppose we can't be too far from your boyhood home. Perhaps we could pay a visit, see who still lingers?”

His eyebrows shot up. He had not considered- “I know where Mia is, and it is not here. My brother moved with her, though not in the same household. I know Mia has a family of her own, but my brother has yet to-” He returned the medallion reluctantly to the pouch at his waist. Her eyes widened, a look he recognized from other women he told that to. “What?”

Her eyebrows lifted at the edges, a smile tugging at her lips. “You are an Uncle?” She bit her bottom lip. His eyes caught the motion. He cleared his throat, fighting the nerves, the thoughts.

“I... suppose I am, yes. I have yet to meet any of my nieces and nephews, but I would assume I have them.” She squealed and her hips wiggled on the box. “What are you so excited about?”

She giggled and dropped from the box. “Just imaging you with a gaggle of children, Commander. I wonder how good you would be with them.” She patted his upper arm. “I suppose anyone would be better with younglings than me, though.” Her head tilted. “Perhaps we could visit Honnleath anyway?” His brow furrowed. “Please?”

\---

The village had seen better days, he knew that, but the poor thing had been all but abandoned during the Blight. It was so close to Lothering and Ostagar, he was surprised there weren't more Darkspawn, alive or dead. The complement of men that traveled with them had cleared the area of any dangers, something that had caused the Inquisitor's face to twist into a childish pout, arms folded over her chest. He smirked at her and rubbed his glove over her head, only serving to muss up her hair and make her shoulders lift in more adorably childish rage.

He was glad she did not shy away from his touch, but she also did not seek it out. Was he overstepping? Was she reluctant to engage in physical contact because of her time in the clan? She was shunned wholly, spent a great deal of time away from the rest. She must not be comfortable with touch. He wasn’t either, but his body ached the longer he was away from her. If all he had to do was muss up her hair for the ache to fade, he would. He just hoped she didn’t think less of him or distance herself from him further.

They dismounted from his horse and her halla, and wandered the streets toward the square. He pointed out places he could remember skinning his knee or fighting with a local bully. She wanted to hear about it, but he had played it off, citing that he was only doing what was right. She rolled her eyes, commenting that he always did, and begged for the details. He honestly couldn't remember. Another house caught his eye. He was friends with a boy from that house and that one, a girl from there.

“Though, I recall there was an incident with a mage and his golem. The control rod must've broken because there was a loud commotion in the center of town here and the golem stood over him just like-”

They rounded the corner of a house and he froze. “What?” He moved away from her. “The golem is gone... How did- Who would even-” He felt her hand on his elbow. “Maker, I'm sorry. I just... It was here every day when I was a boy. To find it suddenly missing... It was too heavy to move, too dangerous to reactivate. We spent a great deal of time playing hide-and-seek around it, or feeding the birds. I swear when those birds came near I could feel the golem's anger.” He raised a hand to the back of his neck.

The Inquisitor patted his lower arm. “The control rod may have ended up in someone else's hands. That person may have taken it.” He narrowed his eyes. The wife of that mage seemed like the type to do that. “You could always send a letter to your sister. Or Leliana might know of someone that knows what happened to it.” Again, she offered solutions, help.

He grunted acknowledgement and moved closer to the square. He raised a hand to the back of his neck, scratching the itch caused by his mane. She moved with him, turning on her feet to take in the village around the square. He moved to the tipped over basket that typically held the town's stale bread for the birds. “This is where it stood. You can still see the grooves from the feet.” He crouched down and rubbed his gloves into the indentations.

So much had happened to him in this village, around this very golem. He could remember using it as a training dummy during plowing days. He remembered scaling it with his brother and sister. He remembered how its crystals glowed whenever his younger sister came around. Whenever the mage’s son came around. His brow furrowed. The crystals glowed when mages were close to it.

He heard a yawn behind him. He turned to look at the source, watched as the Inquisitor’s mouth closed, a squeak escaping her. A smile tugged at his scar. “Are you tired, Inquisitor?” She frowned at him like a petulant child. “Come, we'll make camp and head back to Skyhold on the morrow.”

She groaned. “But I wanted to learn more about your hometown, Commander!”

He stood from his crouch and held a hand toward the way they had come. “There’s nothing else to see unless you’d like to ransack these abandoned homes, Inquisitor.” He lowered his head a bit. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you limping through here, either. You still need to rest.”

She sighed gently. “Of course, Commander.”

She took another look around the square before heading in the direction he motioned. He lowered his hand and started to follow her, brow furrowing deeply as he pondered the mystery of the golem. He didn’t remember much from Kinloch when the Hero of Ferelden had freed him. He remembered treating her unkindly, demanding she carry out the Rite of Annulment. He remembered her companions even less so, though Alistair had made an impression, and Leliana, but perhaps he only remembered them because he encountered them again. The others, Zevran? The Antivan was familiar only because he requested assistance from the Inquisition. The others were silhouettes almost, fragments of a broken memory he didn’t wish to repair. The shattered shrapnel of a mirror that showed only the evils he tried desperately to claw out of his wounds. One of the silhouettes had glowing crystals sticking out of its armor. Was it armor? Or was it stone.

“Thank you, Commander.” Her tender voice broke him from his past.

Her eyes were glowing brightly, her hand held out to him. He offered his arm to her and she accepted it, using him as a crutch to keep weight off her recovering ankle. Part of him wished she had done it for the proximity, for the touch. He would accept the sooth that embraced his arm, cooling the fires there. Though that left the rest of his body fighting the flames.

She lifted a hand to tuck a bit of hair behind her long ear. “For... the distraction.”


	15. Failed Treatment

He was on his way to the War Table when Varric caught him. “Hey! There he is.” Cullen heaved a heavy sigh. “Hey there, Curly. I was hoping I could talk to you.” Cullen swore the dwarf remained at the door to the main hall for just such a purpose. “Is it true what the guards are saying? That you took our Inquisitor all the way to Ferelden for a _date_?”

Cullen took a deep breath and took a step down into Varric's small area. “I had some business to attend to in the vicinity and I thought she might enjoy the trip.” Varric smirked at him. “It wasn't a _date_.” It wasn't a date. It was a distraction. A gift. But not a date.

“Come on, Curly, give me the details. I haven't had this kind of material in a long time! And who knows, working it into my _Swords and Shields_ serial might garner me some affection from our dear Seeker.”

Cullen felt the heat rise from his neck. It hadn't been a date. They weren't romantically involved. The suggestion brought unsavory thoughts and a familiar burn he tried desperately to avoid. Cullen looked to Varric's fireplace, to his crossbow Bianca. The Inquisitor had told him of the Dwarven woman that Varric may or may not have named the bow after, that may or may not have been the designer. “It's possible that Cassandra might like a new serial from you, Varric. Something about... Merchants and Smiths?” Varric sighed heavily at the hint. Cullen just smirked. His eyebrows lifted. “The Lion and the Halla?” The words had fallen unbidden from his lips and he instantly regretted them. They weren't subject for a romance serial. They were just friends. Comrades.

Varric's head moved back. “Why Curly, you have a gift for names! I never would've guessed.”

Cullen pressed his lips together, his hand finding the back of his neck. “As I told the Inquisitor, I am well-read.” He moved back toward the main hall. He had to get away before he made more of a fool of himself. He had a War Table meeting to get to.  
  
He felt the dwarf's hand on his elbow and looked down to him. “Curly wait. Did she tell you about...” Cullen's brow furrowed. Varric seemed almost tense. “The red lyrium?” He knew that wasn't the question Varric had wanted to ask. “Why it's red, why it affects people the way it does?”  
  
Cullen turned back toward the fire. “It has the Blight, correct? That lyrium is alive in some way, otherwise it would not be able to contract the Blight.” He stepped back down toward Varric's table. “Is that your concern?”  
  
Varric shrugged his shoulders and settled into the dwarf sized chair. “You were taking regular lyrium, I thought maybe you'd like to know.” Varric turned his head a bit, eyeing the Commander. “Does it feel strange, knowing what they were forcing on you?”  
  
Cullen's lips pressed into a hard line. Forcing was a strong word. “I can't say it hasn't given me pause. If lyrium were so alive, what are the Templars inviting into their bodies to take it? To maintain a connection to the Fade and their powers. Has the Chantry and the Order always known about it? Though, I do wonder if maybe lyrium is alive in the same respect as plants. You don't suppose your Lady Bianca would be willing to pass along her notes to our people, do you?” Varric shifted in his seat. “We'll keep your name out of it, of course.”  
  
Varric looked toward the fireplace. Cullen saw the irony; Varric with a serious expression on his face instead of himself. “Don't go down that road, Curly. There's nothing but tragedy at the end of it.”

Cullen raised a hand. “I know exactly what it can do to those that survive consuming it. I know just how dangerous it is. Which is why I would like to research it. It is too dangerous not to understand.”

Varric nodded slightly, sitting a bit straighter. “I trust you, Curly. So… Yeah I'll... find a discreet way to ask her.” He looked up to the Commander. “But you'll owe me something for it.” That roguish grin had returned, but Cullen knew better.  
  
“Varric, if you'd like, Leliana could probably arrange something for you and Lady Bianca. For a bit of... privacy, as it were.” He cleared his throat, the headache pressing against his temples.  
  
Varric's eyebrows lifted. “Maybe a nice quiet spot in Ferelden, near Honnleath?” Cullen felt the heat on his face. “The whole keep is abuzz with the news, Curly. I told you that you owe me.”  
  
Cullen turned away. He could feel the burn in his legs. The withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps he could visit with the Inquisitor first, convene in Josephine’s office for a bit while the fit passed. “I have a meeting to get to. If you'll excuse me.”  
  
“I think _The Lion and The Halla_ would sell a few copies. Maybe tell Cassandra to get excited for my next serial!” The blush crept onto his ears as Varric's voice carried through the hall.  
  
When he knocked on the Inquisitor’s door, she opened it shortly afterwards. “Ah, Commander. Come to escort me- Oh!”

He pushed past her. The symptoms were taking over. He had to hide away. And she had seen the worst of it. Leliana and Josephine didn’t know. They knew but they didn’t _know_. And he was determined to keep it that way.

He hurried up the stairs into the Inquisitor’s quarters and shifted to the couch by the stairs. He struggled to remove his weapon and it clattered to the floor beside the couch. He heard her call out his title as he sank into the couch, eyes closed.

His body screamed for it. His limbs shook, lava flowing through his veins. He could feel his head splitting, feel his nails digging into the leather of his gloves. He could no longer catch his breath, breathing in quick, shallow breaths. That was when the nausea started, causing him to swallow again and again. His teeth started to chatter, his fingers practically vibrating. Just a bit of lyrium, that’s all he needed. Please, he could feel his body begging. _Please_. The song filled his ears.

His knees cooled down abruptly. He opened his eyes, curious. One glowing green hand graced his knee, her other hand on the other. He followed them up to her worried expression. He never wanted to share this. He would share his office, his hometown, his life, but this? He wanted to endure this alone. He had just needed a private space to let the episode pass. But instead he was sharing it with her. He felt the tears stinging his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was strained, muffled by the song.

Her hands bounced on his bouncing knees. She stood before him and he shook his head, closed his eyes. She should leave now before things got worse.

He could just barely make out the sound of her boots clomping across the wood floor. They disappeared from earshot as his body burned, his skin stretched too thin. He needed just a bit. Then the footsteps returned. She tapped his shoulder around the mane and he lifted his head carefully. He was shaking so badly.

She held up a pot. He looked to her when he realized she was speaking. Something about purging, if he needed it. In case he needed to vomit, he deduced. He nodded carefully and tried to rest his elbows on his knees. The pot was placed beside him. Her hands found his mane again. Her fingers threatened his jaw, the static closing the distance. He jolted at the spark and looked up to her.

Her eyes were dim, her brow furrowed with concern. He didn’t want her here for this. But his body responded to her. He needed her here. His eyes closed and he raised his shaking hands to her sides. She nodded to him. She was giving him permission.

He clung to her. His hands wrapped around her waist, almost reaching the opposite sides. He buried his face in her tummy and allowed himself to be washed away by the pain, by the need, by the desire.

The minutes stretched on for eternity. He felt the demons, but he clutched at the Inquisitor’s shirt instead. She was there, she was real, she was helping him. She kept him safe, kept his fit private. She supported him.

She made him a better man.

The song died down slowly, replaced with a different one. This new song came from outside, from the tummy he was pressed against. His hands had stopped shaking, but not his legs, not his arms. She was singing in Dalish, something he did not recognize. The notes filled him, washed through his veins to remove the agonizing fire.

It took a few more moments for his limbs to relax, for him to release the fabric of her clothes. But even as the fit died down and he knew he could release her, he didn’t want to. He wanted to tell her, to reveal how much he thought about her, how much he cared for her. How much he… admired her.

But then what? She would reject him, just as she had the medallion. She had made it abundantly clear that they were friends. Close friends. Best friends outside of her Inner Circle. But that was it. She was the Inquisitor. He was her Commander. It was wrong. They had to work together.

“Commander?” His name was a promise on her parted lips.

His body craved her. His skull still burned, but from the scars this time. His eyes searched her face, memorizing the concern, the affection. _Just tell her, Commander_. “Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

He withdrew his hands, straightened up. His stomach still churned, his mouth still overmoist. But she did not move away. Her hands stayed on his shoulders. “Commander, I’m glad you came to me.” Her fingers dug into his mane. “I worry about when you’re alone… When this happens and you have no one to help.”

Her voice cracked and he lifted his gaze to her. Her eyes had brightened a bit, but they were glassy. She held back tears. “I…” Her eyes fell away and he saw her sniffle. Her hands slid out of his mane and she backed away.

He flexed his hand, checking his strength. He heard his sheath rub across the wood floor as she lifted it. “Do you need a few more moments, Commander?” She kept her eyes anywhere but him, his weapon clutched in both her hands.

He clenched his hands into fists and attempted to stand. His legs were still a bit weak, but he could manage. “I’ll be fine, Inquisitor. I can-“

“-endure.” They shared the last word. “You are welcome to rest if you need to, Commander.” She smiled and he heard a single amused exhale. “I’m starting to sound like you…” She held his sword out to him.

He reached for it, his hand shaking slightly. She seemed smaller somehow, but no weaker. “I suppose I should practice what I preach.”

The sword was handed off to him and he set to the task of returning it to his belt. She stood by, watching him shakily go through the motions but get nothing done. Would the shaking go away if he took lyrium? Would he be able to go through one day without being late because he couldn’t get the straps of his armor tight on the first try, or because he couldn’t tie the strings to his belt?

Her hands closed around his gloves as he struggled, forcing him to stop. He relinquished his sword to her again and closed his eyes. This was a weakness he didn’t want anyone to see. Especially not her. “My apologies, Inquisitor.”

The lyrium’s song increased in volume as she stepped away to place his weapon on the table. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, averting his gaze when she turned around to him. She returned to him and took his other hand. “Can you lie down with your armor on, Commander?”

His brow furrowed and he looked back to her. “I… suppose so, yes.” What was she suggesting?

She moved past him, guiding him toward her bed with her grip on his glove. He felt he fires burning in his skull, the song get louder. “I-Inquisitor-“

She turned and motioned to the bed. “I fear the couch would be too small to compensate your height, Commander. Lie down. I’d like to try something.”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Inquisitor, you don’t have to-“

Her eyes narrowed and she tugged on his hand. “You’ll notice I did not ask, Commander. Lie down.”

This was the voice of his commanding officer, of the Captain of the Inner Circle when they ventured into the field. This was the Inquisitor. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He moved around her and carefully lie down on her bed. His armor pressed into his back, but it had been shaped to him. It was uncomfortable, but negligible.

He could smell her on the sheets. The song got louder as he fought the thoughts burning through him. He could feel his hands shaking, feel them ache to grab her. But he fought it. Friends. Distance. He shouldn’t be here.

She leaned over him, her hair falling around him, daring to tickle his nose. Her eyes moved over his, her head tilted to verify that she was placing her hands on his temples. A coolness radiated out from her fingertips, but stopped short, unable to press past his fires.

“Inquisitor, this really isn’t-“

Her bright eyes shot to his. She did not speak, but he felt the terror. He remembered that look. His mother had turned it on him in the stead of verbal admonishment. He knew immediately he had done wrong, knew what was coming. He shrunk below her.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes drifted closed and he saw a blue-green glow out of his peripheral. Her lips were moving in a silent incantation. Rarely had she given him help without asking. Rarely had she ordered _him_ around for the benefit of his well-being. But that was who she was. She cared. She cared with every part of her, even to her detriment.

He could feel the fires dissipating, feel the shaking in his hands decrease. The fires smoldered to a cool ember as she rubbed his temples, as she poured her magic into him. He felt his eyes closed, felt the scars cool under his skull, behind his eyes. The headache remained, but the fires were calmed. It was the most at ease he had felt since before he decided to quit the lyrium.

His eyes shot open. “Inquisitor, what did you do?”

She opened her eyes to him. “Lyrium doesn’t affect mages the way it affects those without magic in their blood. I had a team doing some research on why, but they were coming up with nothing. There’s still too much about lyrium that we don’t understand. Though, there were some Templars that were going through withdrawal symptoms. I reassigned the team to… finding a way to combat the symptoms. This was one of the spells they came up with.” She took a breath. “It was actually all thanks to Bianca. When she said it was alive, it gave the team a new avenue to research.” Her fingers left his temples. “It… the lyrium stays in your body well after you consume it. Because it’s alive, that means it can die. That’s why it hurts, why it does the things it does to you. The lyrium inside you is dying. They discovered if you poured a bit of magic into it, healed it as you would a bruise or a laceration, that it would stave off the symptoms for a few days.”

His brow furrowed. “So you give the lyrium inside me new life?”

She nodded slightly. “I… didn’t do it before because I know how much you want to be free of it. But I couldn’t… watch you suffer.”

He shook his head. “I’m… trying to break free of it. And you… renew it?”

She stood a little straighter. “Commander, I’m not giving you new lyrium, I’m not suggesting you remain on it. I just wanted to give you a few good days. I wanted you to-“

He swung his legs off the bed. “I appreciate your efforts, Inquisitor, but this is not how I wanted to-“

She took a few steps back as he stood. “Commander! I’m not trying to undermine your progress. The lyrium is a parasite. I am treating it to help you.”

He shook his head. “If it is dying, then let it die.” He made his way on stronger legs to the table. He couldn’t argue with the results. He grabbed his sword. “If you ever find me in that state again, I would ask that you not use that spell.”

There was silence behind him. He was able to affix his weapon to his belt with ease. An ease he had not felt for some time. He hated it. He was trying to break the lyrium from his body. By healing it, with more lyrium or with magic, she was only extending his withdrawal.

“We have a meeting to get to, Inquisitor.” He turned around to her.

The Inquisitor stood where he had brushed past her, one hand on the opposite elbow. The hand that hung down played with the gathering of her skirt at her waist. She shook her head, her eyes focused on the windows over the stairs. “I’m… sorry, Commander. I was simply trying to help.”

This posturing was unlike her. Even before she had become Inquisitor she had a bit of fight. Like when Leliana had accused her of poor negotiations with the Templar alliance. She had still fought before apologizing. But this?

She inhaled slowly, as if afraid anything more would draw more of his ire. She lowered her gaze to the floor, drew her shoulders in, and started to move past him. He turned to allow her easier movement, watched her descend the stairs out of her quarters.

She was wrong, he knew that. But he also knew that her intentions were pure. He could endure, he would. Had she lost faith? Or… Did her care for him override her better judgment? He moved to follow her, his hand finding his pommel as the other hovered over the banister. She had only been trying to help. The craving for lyrium was there under the headache, shrouded by a healthy body. He still wanted it because he hadn’t been given anything new. But the pain was gone.

Maybe she was right. Maybe healing the dying lyrium inside him was enough. Maybe it would leave him naturally without dying. But there was no certainty. And he would not be leashed any longer.

\---

The mood at the War Table was tense between the Commander and the Inquisitor. But they did not let it affect the work that needed to be done. The Inquisitor accepted her advisors’ reports of their latest operations and looked to the table. She picked up one sunburst figurine and read the code jotted down on the map. As Josephine looked it up, the Inquisitor turned to Leliana.  
  
“Leliana, have you heard of Honnleath?” Her voice was quiet, apprehensive. He had all but forgotten that she had intended to ask.  
  
Leliana smiled coyly and shared a glance with Cullen. He cleared his throat again, his neck suddenly very itchy. “I have been there once, actually. It was perhaps ten years ago now. Why?”  
  
The Inquisitor’s hands came together, one grasping the fingers of the other. She glanced to Cullen, nervous. “The Commander said there used to be a golem statue in the middle of the village square. But it's gone now. I had hoped perhaps you could look into it?”  
  
Leliana shook her head. “There is no need. I know exactly what happened to her.”  
  
Cullen turned bodily toward Leliana. “Her?”  
  
Leliana smiled enigmatically. “Yes, her name is Shayle. She was reactivated by the Hero of Ferelden.”

Cullen’s brow relaxed. The silhouette filled out. Behind the Hero was the golem, covered in glowing crystals. She had been one of the Hero’s companions.  
  
Josephine lifted her head from the clipboard. “You were with the Hero of Ferelden? What else have you been neglecting to tell me.”  
  
“Quiet, Josie. The Nightingale is allowed a few secrets.” She giggled a bit. “Did you find the mission the Inquisitor was asking about?”

Josephine groaned. “A bard is also supposed to tell stories. And yet you never share your own.”

Leliana’s brow furrowed. “They are not my stories, they are Siliandra’s stories.”

The Inquisitor raised a hand. “Ladies, it’s all right. I just… The Commander was curious. You don’t have to tell us anything more if you do not wish to, Leliana.”

Leliana heaved a sigh of relief. “Perhaps another time, then. We have work to do.” She raised her eyebrows to Josephine.  
  
Josephine cleared her throat. “Indeed, I would love to hear more about it.” She smiled politely to the Inquisitor. “I still have that briefing, if you are ready to listen now.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “Of course, Josie. Go ahead.”

After making her decisions, after calling the meeting adjourned, Cullen watched her make her way out of the War Room. Leliana was fielding more questions from Josephine about her time with the Hero of Ferelden, which left him alone at the War Table.

Had he been too harsh with her?

He jogged around the War Table and nodded to Josephine and Leliana. The distance to the main hall was too long. He threw the door open and looked around. Just the usual nobles that lingered in the main hall. He took a few steps forward and looked to Varric. The dwarf was alone. Cullen turned to the Inquisitor’s door. Not there either.

He raised a hand to the back of his neck. Perhaps they needed a break from each other. Maybe it was for the best that she had disappeared. Though some of his symptoms had been alleviated, he still did not appreciate the avenue with which this vigor had been achieved. At least she was doing something about it, researching how to help Templars overcome lyrium. Templars and mages, he corrected.

He never put much thought into what she was doing with her power as Inquisitor if not delegating to them. But she had several of her own projects that she had not shared with him. After everything he had shared with her. He set his jaw.

His office was lonely that night.


	16. Test of Faith

The letters and reports that Liandra exchanged with the Commander she tried to keep strictly business. She tried to keep the letters impersonal. Rarely in her clan had she used her magic without permission. Rarely in Skyhold had she used her magic without express permission. There were those times when someone had tripped and she would conjure some wind or soften the dirt, or when she needed to relight her hearth. Out in the field, magic use was common and unavoidable.

She should’ve known better than to use magic on the Commander. With everything he had been through. She sometimes forgot he used to be a Templar, that he might still have prejudices. And he had been tortured, been there for the Kirkwall Rebellion. There was a great deal the Commander had been through at the hands of magic and magic users. And she had disregarded all of that in a moment of weakness.

She wanted to blame it on a demon, that she had been too weak, had made the decision to use the treatment she knew because a demon had convinced her. But she couldn’t claim that. She had made the conscious decision on her own.

Bull had been the one to approach her on the road. “Couldn’t help but notice you looking a little… tense, Boss. Uh, everything okay?”

Of course it would be the Ben Hassrath. “Yeah, I’m fine, Bull. I’m sorry.” She tried to smile, but she knew he would see right through it.

His horns bobbed with his nod. “And the birds you’re sending back to Skyhold are a little light.”

She looked to the terrain, narrowly avoiding a rock she might’ve tripped over. “Just getting used to writing reports, Bull. We’ve been cooped up in Skyhold for healing for so long. After that fight with the High Dragon. It was a miracle we lived.”

He hesitated, but a grin spread across his cheeks. “That we did! Do you suppose we’ll find any dragons?”

Liandra couldn’t contain the chuckle at Bull’s enthusiasm. It was just what she needed to brighten her mood for the long walk through the Emerald Graves.

She couldn’t shake the guilt. What she had done to the Commander was her own weakness. Which was why her letters were formal. She was in the field for weeks before he had made the effort to ask her about herself, rather than the required information for the report. She had offered a bit of information, but not much. She didn’t want to, she couldn’t allow herself to get closer. She had to keep her distance. Or she might do something stupid again.

When his letters started to arrive with sloppier script, with jagged letters and meandering prose, she knew something was wrong. The Commander was a man of few words, able to get to the point quickly. He could be cryptic, when he wanted to be. But his letters were longer with less to say. She could see the shaking of his hand in the shape of his script. The symptoms were getting worse. The Inner Circle started their way back to Skyhold the next morning.

It took entirely too long for them to return, in her opinion. But as she rode through the gate and turned to the stables for Master Dennet to take her hart, she felt the panic settle in. She had to check on the Commander. She removed her staff and her pack and left them with Blackwall to store at the stables. She had more important business to attend to.

She wasn’t sure he would even see her, even talk to her about the symptoms. Not after what had happened when she tried the treatment that her team had discovered. He was hurt, betrayed, angry. She could understand why he would feel that way, but she just… couldn’t bear it. He wanted to endure, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t watch him suffer when she had a way to help him. Beyond simply covering for him or doing the things he needed help with himself.

She paused at the door to his office, glancing to the agents standing outside. Korbin, Hall, and Ser Belinda. Ser Belinda waved to her with a bright smile. Liandra braved her own smile and waved back. Hall offered a nervous wave which prompted a laugh from Ser Belinda. The Templar grabbed his hand a started to speak to him excitedly, drawing a laugh from the dwarven Legionnaire as well.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Commander?”

There was an agent in his office, but no sign of the Commander. “Inquisitor! My apologies, the Commander isn't here. He told me to tell anyone that came that he had a meeting.”

Liandra arched a brow. Cryptic. Cryptic was always bad when it involved the Commander. “A meeting?” Was he waiting for her in her quarters?

The messenger looked away, her muscles tensed. “Y-yes, Your Worship.”

Liandra hated that title. She didn’t deserve it. She was just a Dalish elf doing the best she could. She took a small step forward. She did not want to frighten the woman, so intimidated by Liandra’s rank. “Would you happen to know where this meeting is?” She tried to keep her voice level, congenial.

The agent glanced to the door. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “He... The Commander said he had to speak with the Lady Seeker upon her return.”

Cassandra. “Thank you very much.” Liandra spun around. She could feel the messenger’s fear, a taut spring. She smiled over her shoulder. “You can relax, Private.”

The jog down to Cassandra's armory was filled with Elven curses and worry. Liandra had ruined everything. All she had wanted to do was help him. She had to. Her chest hurt watching him struggle to tie his sword to his belt. She should’ve just asked him.

She remembered what he had said about Cassandra being the best to keep an eye on him. If he was waiting for her to return, there was only one thing that could mean. Liandra's chest grew tight, her breath hard to come by.

As she approached the armory, she noticed the smiths grouped up around Cassandra's stool. Liandra thanked the Creators for her sensitive hearing. The smiths were whispering about the Commander. He had stormed in like a typhoon. He was shouting at Cassandra, demanding an explanation, a concession. Cassandra had ordered them to take a break. How much work were they missing out on while the Lady Seeker and the Commander rode each other.

“You've asked me for my opinion and I have given it.” Cassandra was exhausted from their time in the field. “Why do you expect it to change?” But not so exhausted as to back down from a fight.

“I expect you to keep your word.” The Commander's voice was forced through clenched teeth. “It's relentless! I can't-”

“You give yourself too little credit, Commander.” Cassandra’s voice had taken on that rare compassion that Liandra was familiar with.

“If I'm unable to fulfill the vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this.” There was a frustration in his voice that was far worse than what he had expressed in her quarters before she left for the field again. “Would you rather save face than admit-”

Liandra leaned on the door and it started to open. She stood up, hoping to stop it, but the door creaked open slowly under its own weight. The noise interrupted the Commander's question. Both Seeker and Commander turned to the door, to Liandra. She didn't even try to offer a weak smile, a reassuring shrug. She knew the symptoms were getting worse. She knew why he was here.

She intended to stop him. “Commander-”

The Commander shook his head, the leather of his gloves creaking on his pommel. He sighed and walked by Liandra quickly. “Forgive me.” The phrase as heavy, breathy, meant for her ears alone.

Liandra moved out of his way and took a step after him. Cassandra's hand found her shoulder. “Don't.” Liandra frowned darkly. The Commander's form disappeared through the armory door. “People say _I'm_ stubborn. This is ridiculous.” Her hand slipped off the Inquisitor's shoulder. “ _He_ is ridiculous.”

“Why stop me, Cassandra?” Liandra didn't bother trying to hide the anger.

Cassandra shook her head. “He told you that he stopped taking lyrium?”

Liandra raised her hands. “What does that have to do with-”

“Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.” Cassandra turned to the blacksmith's stool and sank into it slowly.

Liandra’s breath hitched in her throat. This was her fault. She shifted her weight absently and moved with the Lady Seeker. “He doesn't need a replacement.” He didn't, and no one could replace him.

She trusted him wholeheartedly, something she sometimes regretted those nights when she took her dinner alone. He was the only one qualified to inspire and train the forces, the only one smart enough to respond to situations tactfully, the only one with enough strategy to foresee and prevent disasters. The Commander could never be anything less, and no one would ever be enough to fill his boots.

Cassandra nodded. “I completely agree, Inquisitor. But he does not. He refuses to listen to reason. Besides, replacing him now would destroy him and the progress he's made.”

Liandra set her jaw and looked toward the door. The progress Liandra might have destroyed when she healed him. She overstepped. “Why would he-”

Cassandra shook her head. “He and I made an agreement before he came to Haven. We knew that as a Seeker, I would be the best candidate to evaluate the dangers of his withdrawal. He would've come to me sooner, but we were out in the field.”

Liandra stayed rooted to her spot. This was her fault. She had overstepped, she had not asked. She should’ve allowed him to continue on the track he thought was best. She had lost his trust. “Did he write you about it while we were out in the field?”

Cassandra’s hand fell between her knees. “One of his letters demanded a meeting upon our return.”

Liandra brought her hands together before her. Her staff was still held in the sheath across her back. “How long had he been… concerned?” She had wanted to escape Skyhold quickly after his last episode. He was so upset with her.

Cassandra sighed slightly. “I can’t recall, Liandra. Perhaps a few days after we left. The symptoms were getting worse.”

Liandra slid her hands up to the opposing elbows. Cryptic. He didn’t want to share what had happened between them. It was their dirty little secret. “But why would he not come to me?” The question was not intended to be voiced. She knew why, knew she had ruined their friendship.

Cassandra's crown of braids disappeared as she looked up to her. “You?” She blushed slightly and looked back down to her armored hands. “I suppose he would not want to... risk your disappointment.”

Liandra furrowed her brow. Did Cassandra know more than she let on? “My disappointment...? He could never-” She felt the blush, the butterflies. She had been the disappointment. She cleared her throat in an attempt to clear them out. “Is there anything we can do?”

Cassandra's fingers fidgeted with each other. “Well, if he is not willing to listen to me, it is possible he would listen to you.”

“Me? Why me?” He had not listened to her already. What could she think to do now to change his mind?

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. “You share his office, you two frequently call meals together. Are you not good friends?”

Liandra’s eyes shifted to the forge. Friends? “I suppose so, but-“

Cassandra shook her head. “I cannot claim he and I are better friends than you are with him, and he will not listen to me. I’ve seen how close you two are. He will listen to you.”

Liandra’s ears flattened against her braids. She felt the blush on her cheeks. “We’re just friends, Cassandra.”

The Lady Seeker narrowed her eyes at the elf. “Very close friends. He made his suffering known to you.”

Liandra fidgeted. “It was for the good of the Inquisition, he said.”

Cassandra stood from the stool. “Templars have never made their suffering known. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, by their lyrium leash, and to those who hold it. He views this as a chance to **break** that leash, to prove to himself – and anyone that would follow – that it **is** possible.” Cassandra turned back to Liandra. “He _can_ do this. I knew that when he mentioned it in Kirkwall. Remind him of his convictions, Inquisitor. Remind him what it means to him. He must renew his faith.”

The Lady Seeker’s words were filled with passion, with understanding. Liandra wasn't sure what had happened in the time between her departures and now that had caused the Commander to _lose_ that faith in himself, but she understood he needed to be reminded of it. It pained her to think that he had faltered, that he had lost that conviction. That Liandra had been the Catalyst. She had to fix this, if she even still could.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you, Cassandra. I will... do my best.”

By Sylaise, Liandra wasn't going to wait to remind the Commander. He had been upset enough to wait for Cassandra, to leave his office and wait by the armory. Her heart beat against her ribcage as she jogged out of the armory, Cassandra behind her to call the smiths back into the forge. Liandra took the stairs up to the ramparts two at a time. The agents that had greeted her earlier were gone. She hesitated by the grate in the center of the ramparts. She had to salvage this. She had to stop running. Liandra approached the open door to the Commander's office. She heard a shout as she passed the threshold, the container with his lyrium tools crashing into the door just in front of her.

Her arms drew up to cover her face, a shrill scream tearing through her throat. She panted as she realized the danger had passed. Her eyes fell to the floor, to the pile of tools and shattered glass and lyrium oozing across the stone.

The Commander's hand was on her shoulder. “Maker's breath, I didn't hear you coming!”

“ _Halam sahlin, shemlen_.” She hadn't meant to speak in elvish. The translation hadn't occurred between her thoughts and her lips, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears.

The Commander's hand pulled away from her as if she were on fire. He turned away quickly, eyes closed. “Forgive me.” She heard the pain, the plea, the prayer. It wasn't just the Commander asking for her forgiveness.

Liandra looked down to the tools, to the box he had shown her shortly after their arrival in Skyhold. She crouched down and started the process of cleaning up the tools as he moved back to his desk. “Commander, I… am truly sorry if what I did before I left-“ She took a deep breath, her hands shaking. She pressed the bulbous tool into the indentation for it. “I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you.” She finished cleaning up the tools and closed the box.

He turned back toward her. “What you…” His eyes closed, squeezing slightly. A headache. “No, you didn’t. You could never-“ He groaned, turning back to the window.

Liandra stood and closed the door behind her. She had run long enough. She had to face him. “Commander, I told you if you need to talk to someone, you can come to me. I know… I put that at risk before, and I’m sorry.” She tried to hide her pain, to hide her anger, to make him understand her concern. She prayed to the Creators that she had.

He shook his head, speaking over his shoulder. “It’s all right. Your intentions were pure. You don't have to-” His voice caught in his throat, a gag, and his leg gave. He caught himself on the desk, but just barely, a grunt escaping him as his arm stiffened, as his shoulder was forced up, abruptly supporting all his weight.

Liandra felt the tightness in her throat. She tried to close the distance. “No.” She stopped at his command. “I'm all right. Just a tremor...”

She growled, cursing herself for obeying him, cursing him for letting it get this bad. “Commander, you are far from 'all right'. You've gone so far as to ask for a replacement.” Her mark crackled against the wooden box.

He stood and continued toward the window. The distance between them grew, whether he meant it to or not. “I never meant for _this_ to interfere. I thought I was strong enough, but...” He paused, turned around to her. “I told you what happened at Ferelden's Circle while I was there. During the Blight.”

She moved closer. The box was placed gently on his desk. “Yes. I know you don't like to speak of it.”

He closed his eyes, demons clawing their way through his aura, but never reaching him. “It was taken over by abominations. The mages led an uprising there, pushed to the ritual room at the top of the tower and used it to summon demons to possess apprentices. Any Templars that tried to get higher in the tower were **slaughtered**. I watched them die, Inquisitor. I had to stand there while they screamed, torn apart from the inside or limb from limb. I could do nothing to protect them. I had to press on to the top.”

She had heard this before, but this retelling was important. She nodded, acknowledged for him.

“When I reached the ritual room, I was kept alive. A sacrifice to a Desire demon. I was _tortured_ for days. Weeks, maybe. They tried to break my mind, shatter my soul.” His eyes lifted to her, the scars alight behind his eyes. “How could I be the same man after that?” He turned to the window. “Still, I wanted to serve. But my distrust of mages, my fractured state, I was sent around to some small villages to 'Calm down', per my Knight-Captain. I was eventually deemed fit and sent to the Kirkwall.” He shook his head, the anger seeping through. “I trusted my Knight-Commander there, and for what? Hm?” He chuckled sardonically and turned back to her. “ _Her_ fear of mages ended in madness, helped to spark the war.” He raised a hand to his forehead. “You know the rest. Kirkwall's Circle fell, taking the city with it. Innocents were slaughtered this time, killed in the streets by abominations, by demons, by Templars and mages alike.”

He turned around to her, brow furrowed. “Can't you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

Liandra watched the rage demons roaring around his aura, trying to pierce the shell he had formed around himself. If only she could get close enough. But he was right. This was her fault. She had healed the lyrium, kept it a burden. “Of course, Commander. I've never asked anything more or less of you than your best. And if your best doesn't include lyrium, then I will do everything in my power to support you. And I have every faith in you.”

The Commander growled and moved away from her, toward the bookshelf on the opposite side of his office. Liandra moved with her, her fingers running along the top of his desk. “You should be questioning what I've done! Who I've become. I thought it would be better once I cut myself off from the lyrium, once I severed ties to that life entirely. I could regain control, carve my own path instead of the one the Order set before me.” He clenched his jaw, pacing back and forth in front of her. “But these _thoughts_ won't leave me: How many lives depend on our success? How many lives have you taken in service to a broken Chantry? How will she react when she learns about what you've done? Can you make her proud of you? How much longer could you have endured before you gave in to the demon? Why didn't you do something sooner to prevent the disaster in Kirkwall? Are you really better without the lyrium?

“I swore myself to this cause, to Cassandra, to the Inquisition, to **you**... I _will not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.” His voice rose, Liandra held a hand toward him. “I should be taking it.” A guttural yell issued from him as his fist collided with the bookshelf. She heard the crunch of bones on impact, books falling off the shelves behind him. “I should be taking it...” His voice had lost its anger, almost a sob.

Liandra moved to place a hand on his elbow. He would’ve been better off if she had just been there to support him. She had made it worse. But she couldn't leave him on his own, fighting off the demons, wallowing in his pain and self-doubt. He needed someone. Even if that someone was her. Though she wondered who he wanted to make proud. The Hero of Ferelden? He twitched, avoiding her gaze. “Commander, this isn't about the Inquisition anymore. This is about you.” His jaw clenched, relaxed, clenched. “You don't want to take lyrium. You don't have to take it. I will _never_ ask you to take it. And I will never try that treatment again.”

He closed his eyes. “These memories haunt me... Lyrium has been known to cause Templars to forget-”

Liandra placed a hand on his cheek. His skin burned, but she endured. He needed someone. His demons shifted, looking to her for a new target. “Those memories, Commander, make you the man you are now. You have only come this far because of the things you've experienced. Whatever happened before, Commander, you're a good man now.”

He sighed and leaned into her touch. The butterflies returned. He needed her. “I know what I am, and it is not that.”

She looked to his fist still against the bookshelf. He would need a bit of healing. Her other hand stretched to touch it, calm the taught spring. The demons had not calmed in the slightest, but she could feel his aura pushing out, searching for hers. He wanted her. “Why do you believe that?”

The mane of fur around his shoulders fell. “The things I've done, Inquisitor. The things I've _thought_. They cannot be absolved so easily.”

Her ears sagged with the weight of this admission. Cassandra was right. She took his hand in hers, pushing a bit of magic into it to heal the broken fingers. “Commander... Why tell me this...?”

His fingers, healed by her magic, threaded between her fingers and held her hand tightly, as if his only anchor in this stormy sea. “You are my absolution, Liandra. The Maker sent me to the Inquisition for a reason and I believe that reason is you.”

His eyes opened to her, golden hazel boring into hers. He saw her, not the Inquisitor. He lifted his other hand to hers on his cheek. His leathered fingers curled around the palm and lowered it slightly. The heat of his skin left her. “I need to know you can forgive me.”

He had said her name. “Just me...?”

His eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, she could see the Commander again. He took a deep breath and his fingers left her hand. “Apologies, Inquisitor. I just... I'm not sure I can endure this.”

And like that, he was gone. He had distanced himself. She tried to swallow around the knot in her throat. “You can, Commander. You are not alone.”

He flexed the hand she had healed and looked back down to the papers on his desk. His eyes drifted to the lyrium under the door. “Would you like to accompany me to the training circle, Inquisitor?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you certain, Commander?” Her name from his lips lingered in her chest.

He took a deep breath. “I believe I have spent far too much time in this office while you were away. Unless you have something better in mind?”

A torrent of thoughts flooded her, bringing a blush to her cheeks, to her ears. She lifted her head. “I’m afraid to say I didn’t bring back any exotic foods. I wouldn’t want to call for a random inspection. But Bull and Cassandra and Blackwall are all rather exhausted. I suppose if you don’t mind spectators, the training pit sounds like a good idea.”

He nodded slightly. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He moved around his desk and headed to the door opposite his desk.

The shortest route would be through the door she had come through, but the lyrium was still there. Tempting him. Taunting him. Her brow furrowed slightly. “Actually, Commander.” He paused at the door to the bridge. “How about a nice drink at the tavern? Just a moment to… calm down. I have some stories I didn’t have a chance to write you about.”

A melancholy smile lifted the scarred corner of his lips. “That actually sounds much better, Inquisitor.”


	17. Ladies' Day Out

Liandra wasn't sure how long they had been wandering around Val Royeaux looking for something that would impress the nobles at the Winter Palace. Solas had reminded her that she would need to overcome a lot of prejudices about elves in Orlais, and the easiest place to start would be with their fashion. It was the first thing they would see of her, and it would have to combat the rumors they had already heard.

Cassandra had been the first to suggest dress uniforms for the entire Inner Circle. Something that set them apart, identified them as the Inquisition. Something functional. Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana had been against the suggestion. Vivienne was relentless in attempting to get the party to her tailor. But Liandra wanted to support a lesser-known merchant, if she could find one. She had offered the job to Krem, but he declined. Krem’s father was out of the question; he was still in service to a Magister in Tevinter. Offers to pay his debt had fallen to Josephine. They were still in negotiation.

They wandered into another dress shop, this one manned by a woman without a mask. Instead, she wore an eyepatch that she lifted up to talk to them. Both eyes were intact. She offered the women a smile and showed them to her stock of dresses designed for elves. She also made sure to offer her services for a couture dress at a discounted price for the Inquisition. Liandra declined the discount, but thanked her for the offer.

Cassandra had nothing kind to say about the dresses held to her neck in the human section. “As I told Dorian, if my Uncle could not get me into a dress, neither shall you. I want to be of service, Liandra, but if it means dressing in this…” She reached down to fluff up the tulle skirt. “Monstrosity, then I will have to respectfully decline.”

Vivienne shifted another dress on a rack. “I would have to agree, my dear. Perhaps something more fitting to your frame. Something to show off your physical strength without a show of force. Off the shoulder, perhaps?”

Cassandra clicked her tongue and sighed heavily. “I don’t think the nobles will take too kindly to my scars.”

Liandra furrowed her brow. It was unlike Cassandra to feel insecure with her physical appearance, especially in the matter of her scars. “I’m sure they’ll take as kindly to your scars as they will mine, Cassandra. Or my ears, for that matter.”

Vivienne turned away from the rack she had perused. “Ladies, please, the nobles will start to connect rumors with your scars and learn to fear what they have heard. It’s all very simple. And all you have to do is wear something that ensure you are seen.”

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. “I am a Seeker. I should be in uniform.”

Josephine pulled another dress off the rack. “You are a member of the Inquisition, Lady Pentaghast.”

Liandra chuckled and moved to a counter that held mannequin heads with masks. “It’s all right, Josie, I know what she meant.”

Cassandra sighed again. “The men will not have to be put through this, will they? Will you be getting a nice suit for The Iron Bull? Or if you’re looking to intimidate, perhaps it would be best you let him remain shirtless.” A growl escaped the Antivan. Leliana giggled from deeper within the shop. “What? Is something funny?”

Josephine gave an exasperated sigh. “That Qunari is beyond stubborn! I tried to tell him about the dress for the ball and he refuses to change! I asked him to wear the style, _with_ a shirt, and he is trying to leverage a pair of his **ridiculous** pants.”

Liandra paused in front of a mannequin head with a particularly modest design. “Krem’s father made those pants, I think. Krem is the only one that knows how to keep them mended.”

Josephine’s eyebrows shot up. “Why didn’t he just say something?”

Liandra waved a hand over her shoulder. “You know the Big Guy. He has a reputation.”

Vivienne offered another dress to Cassandra. It was off the shoulders, long, without the tulle. Cassandra batted it away with her palm. “This is ridiculous. You would not be trying to do this to Blackwall. Or Cullen.”

Josephine giggled at that protest. “Commander Cullen would look ravishing in anything, though I will admit he would prefer a uniform. I look forward to the ball if only to see him cleaned up and outside of his armors again.”

Leliana's laugh sang over a rack of dresses. “Oh, yes. I imagine he will be very popular when we get to the ball.” She emerged with a deep purple ball gown. “Don't you agree, Inquisitor?”

Leliana’s voice drifted through her ears, but she did not recognize the words. The modest mask that covered only half the face had entranced her. It was thin, without all the head covering that the others had. Silver plated, with flares at the temples. She heard her title and tore her attention away. “Hm? I'm sorry, the... Orlesian fashion was starting to make sense.”

Leliana's delicate smile played on her lips. Liandra recognized it, wondering what she would be baited into this time. “We were discussing how popular the Commander will be at the ball. A tight suit, nice shoes. I may have to ask him to shave.”

The Commander’s smile entered her mind, the Commander in his loose-fitting woolen shirt that he wore under his armor to keep the cold out. She had seen him without it on a number of occasions, sharing their meals with the others or alone in her quarters. But the idea of the Commander in one of the suits that the Orlesian nobles wore? The kind that left little to the imagination.

Her ears flattened against her head. “No!” The other women turned to her. She cleared her throat. Liandra could feel the demons nearing her, sensing a weakness. “I... agree that Orlesian men don't have beards, but the Commander doesn't either. We don't have to make him shave.”

Vivienne smiled. “Of course not, my dear. That man's stubble is part of his charm. Like the scar on his lip. It tells a story.”

Cassandra shared a glance with Liandra and rolled her eyes. “All this talk of scars and charm. Cullen is more than just a pretty face. He has real skill on the battlefield and a brilliant strategic mind.”

Josephine grinned slowly. “You think Commander Cullen is pretty, Lady Pentaghast?”

Leliana took a step forward. “Don’t forget brilliant, Josie.”

Cassandra’s whole body stiffened, adding inches to her height. Her cheeks had turned scarlet, only broken by the pink of her scars. “Thi-This is not about what I think of the Commander!”

Josephine shared a glance with Leliana. Leliana giggled behind another enigmatic smile. “Of course not, Lady Pentaghast.”

Cassandra sighed and turned away to look at the small collection of men’s suits this shop had available.

Liandra watched the Lady Seeker for a few moments. After learning about her love of _Swords and Shields_ , Cassandra had confided her in that despite being a proud warrior, she had wanted someone to woo her like in the books. To have the ideal. But she never wanted to admit that to anyone, to admit that under her hardened exterior, under the Pentaghast Dragonhunter name she was just a woman that wanted a man to ready poetry by candlelight. The Commander seemed like the type to fulfill that. Perhaps Liandra had taken up too much of the Commander’s time. And Cassandra’s.

Leliana took a few steps toward the mask. “Would you like to wear this mask to the ball, Inquisitor?”

Liandra focused on Leliana. The mask. She looked back to the mannequin head. She welcomed the distraction. “Well... All the other masks cover so much of the face. I...” She touched her fingers to the cheek that held her vallaslin. “I already have something decorating my face. On both sides.” She motioned to her scars. “But this mask doesn't cover too much. It’s… modest. While I was looking at it, I thought about something beautiful to be done with it. It was inspired by Vivienne, actually.”

Hearing her name, Vivienne moved away from the rack of dresses to stand beside her. “Is that right, my dear?”

Liandra smiled and motioned to the First Enchanter’s hat. “The horns you have coming off of your mask. I thought... perhaps I could do something similar, but inspired by Halla horns. It might pull attention off my ears.”

Josephine moved between the Inquisitor and the Nightingale. Her fingers stretched toward the mask. “The Dalish carve the Halla horns into intricate beautiful patterns, don't they? That would look stunning!” She beckoned to the vendor. “We need to have it custom made, though. You have a point about your tattoo-”

“Vallaslin.” Liandra corrected.

“So perhaps a half-mask to show that off, with the Halla horns projecting off the mask at the temples. They will draw the eye to the horns we make of your hair, lined with jewels.” Josephine bounced a bit. “You will look amazing!”

Cassandra's disgusted sigh was heard far behind her. “This is ridiculous. Not you, too.”

Liandra turned back to the Seeker. “If you don't want to wear a dress, Cassandra, you don't have to. I would never make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with. But… They have a point. I will need to overcome a great deal to inspire faith in me and the Inquisition. If that means I have to dress the part first, then I will. I will admit I’ve never worn anything half as delicate and fancy as anything here in my life.”

She had spent all her life as a Between member of the clan, in light but durable clothing, carrying around a staff. Her hair was kept in dense braids to keep it from sticking in the branches, to keep it out of her face while she fought. She always wore something warm in Skyhold. Rarely had she ever worn a skirt. And even then, it was only in the last year or so since the Conclave.

Vivienne chuckled. “You will get used to it, my dear. It is definitely a step in the right direction.”

Josephine smiled brightly back to her. “I wonder if you will catch anyone’s eye at the ball.”

Leliana shook her head and returned to the racks. “She is an elf. I doubt any of the nobles there will be interested in wedding her.”

Liandra furrowed her brow. Marriage had never been a consideration. “Is that something I need to sorry about?”

Josephine placed a hand on her shoulder. “You have the might of the Inquisition behind you, Inquisitor. No one at the ball will think less of you-“

Vivienne lifted a dress off the rack. “Not to your face at least, dear.”

Josephine shot a dark look to the First Enchanter’s voice. “Definitely not.”

Liandra shook her head. “No, I’m used to that. I meant the marriage thing.”

Josephine’s lips curled into a diplomatic smile, somewhere between pity and pride. “Only if you want to. I have heard rumors that there are those interested in seeking a… partnership.”

Liandra looked back to the mask. She was a mage. She was a Dalish elf. She was the Inquisitor. She wasn’t worthy of that sort of attention. “I… wasn’t aware.”

Josephine shrugged. “I had not brought them to your attention before because I thought Corypheus and the Breach was more important. If you are interested in something like that, we could look into potential suitors. I have many men and women seeking an audience with you.”

Liandra stiffened. “Men and women?”

Leliana chuckled and lifted a deep green dress off the rack. “Perhaps you should’ve asked her preference first, Josie.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows, her delicate fingers covering her lips. “My apologies, Inquisitor. You’ve never really expressed that sort of interest so I just-“

Liandra shook her head. “No, no, that’s all right. I take it you prefer both?”

Josephine blushed darkly. “I… I do not discriminate, no.”

Liandra smirked. “How progressive of you. I must admit I am not as such. I prefer the company of men, if I prefer anyone. Though, I haven’t had _anyone’s_ company as yet, so I could be wrong.”

All the women turned to her. Josephine was the first to speak. “You are still a virgin?”

Liandra looked to each of the women in turn. “I… am, yes.”

Leliana smiled. “There is nothing wrong with that, Inquisitor. It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

Liandra set her jaw. All those days spent alone, spent being told she was cursed. Any time she tried to make a friend, she was reminded of how disgusting she was for being Touched by the Fade. It wasn’t that surprising in context. “Thank you, Leliana.”

The merchant finally approached. “What can I help you ladies with?”

Josephine raised a hand. “Oh! Yes, this mask. Is there any way we could have it altered?”

Josephine, Vivienne, and Liandra started discussing a couture dress and mask with the tailor. The woman produced parchment and charcoal and started to sketch out a few ideas based on the suggestions of the women. Leliana excused herself to look for proper shoes for whatever the Inquisitor decided on.

Cassandra threw her hands up with another disgusted sigh and started out of the shop. The tailor made a point to mention she could also make a man’s suit before Cassandra was too far away. Cassandra lingered while the others compromised on a dress design. Once Liandra’s dress was complete, the other women added a few of the rack dresses to the order. The tailor called Cassandra over to talk about a suit design.

The sketch had looked amazing. Would Liandra truly look that beautiful? “Thank you, ladies. I don't... think I would've committed to this without your help.”

“I'm sure you will be the talk of the ball, Inquisitor.” Josephine practically beamed.

Leliana waved from across the courtyard at a cobbler. Vivienne nodded and made her way back inside to update Cassandra on their new location.

“How did it go? Did you come up with a satisfactory design?” Leliana wandered by a rack of shoes.

Josephine clapped her hands together under her chin. “The dress that the tailor sketched out looks stunning! And the mask will be easy to modify. I would say it is beyond satisfactory. The entire ball will be looking at her.”

Leliana glanced to Liandra, understanding curving her brow. She raised a hand to take a sparkly silk heel off the shelf. “You don’t want the entire ball looking at you, do you, Inquisitor?”

Liandra was sure the question was loaded with a different meaning, but she wasn’t sure what that alternate meaning could be. “Not… particularly. But being watched by the Hunters has prepared me for a multitude of gazes.”

Leliana chuckled. “Is there anyone specific you might be wanting to impress, Inquisitor?”

The Commander’s scarred smile flashed in her mind. She shook her head. She had ruined any chance of that. She was a mage, he was a former Templar. She had thrown his recovery back without permission. “I… Just the Duke, or the Empress. That’s who I need to impress, right?”

Leliana’s coy smile faded, replaced with a furrowed brow. “I suppose you are right, Inquisitor.”

Liandra pressed her lips together. Just as she hated “You Worship”, hearing her title all the time from the mouths of her friends had started to grate on her. “You can call me Liandra if you’d like. I’m not the Inquisitor all the time.”

Josephine smiled. “Are you sure?”

Liandra nodded pointedly. “The others don’t call me Inquisitor all the time. Especially not Varric. Like Sera always says, I have to look approachable to the little people. I can’t forget that I’m not just the Inquisitor or just the Herald. I am Liandra as well.”

Vivienne wandered up behind her. “Or Spitfire, as Varric calls you. Delightful nickname, my dear, though I prefer Liandra.”

Cassandra placed a hand on her shoulder. “The Iron Bull likes to call her Boss. Does that not offend you?”

Liandra smiled, a bit more comfortable with Vivienne and Cassandra back. “No. I like to think of it as his version of Spitfire. He means it in less of a ‘Your Worship’ way.”

Leliana lifted another shoe. “And what does the Commander call you? Should we inform him of this change in decorum?”

The Commander rarely spoke her name, just as she rarely spoke his. It was a promise to her, a secret that weighed on them. She wasn’t ready for it. “How did the suit design work out, Cassandra?”

Vivienne released a disgusted sigh. Cassandra smiled. “I believe you will be satisfied with the final design. Though we will need to forward the tailor measurements for the others.”


	18. Misdirection

The ladies were relieved to arrive back in Skyhold ahead of schedule. Cassandra was the first to escape back to her quarters above the armory. Liandra walked with the other women as far as Varric’s small portion of the main hall. Vivienne bid the Inquisitor farewell and walked with Josephine back to her office. Leliana made her way back to her post through the rotunda. Each goodbye was qualified with a “We should do this again sometime. It was fun, just us girls.” Liandra had reminded them that Sera had not been there, which was met with a resounding disgusted noise.

As Leliana made her way through the rotunda, Liandra’s gaze fell on the empty chair that typically held Varric. It was fairly late in the afternoon and while the dwarf kept odd hours, it would be strange to find him still asleep. Varric did, however, enjoy spending time in the tavern. Or sometimes she found him in the Undercroft fighting Dagna for Bianca. The Arcanist had spirited away the crossbow on a number of unguarded occasions, though Liandra could never be sure if she just wanted to see Varric again or if she was still stumped by the construction. She glanced down the main hall to her quarters.

Before the women had left for Val Royeaux, Liandra had asked Varric to keep an eye on the Commander. His symptoms were getting worse and she didn’t trust anyone else with the Commander’s well-being. Well, she could, but Varric was the most likely to be discreet. And if Varric were gone…

She hung her satchel on the chair by Varric’s table and made her way through the rotunda. Solas snoozed in his chair. Another walk in the Fade, another visit with friends. She chuckled and continued over the bridge to the Commander’s office.

Another messenger stood by his desk. Liandra froze. No, the same messenger. “Oh, Private!” The woman saluted stiffly. “At ease, please. Do you know what has become of the Commander?” Was he going to ask Cassandra for a replacement again?

The woman shook her head. “No, Your Worship. He didn’t tell me. Though, Master Tethras came in earlier to visit with the Commander. I don’t like to pry, You Worship, so I don’t recall what was said. But the Commander left here with a bag.”

Her brow furrowed. A bag? Was Varric taking him for a distraction? Or perhaps he had an emergency? He would’ve left word if that were the case. Liandra thanked the messenger and made her way back through to the main hall. She recovered her satchel and returned to her quarters.

As she opened the door to her quarters, she heard a bit of laughter. Two men in her room. She moved slowly, clutching the strap of her bag.

“I never even realized it! Not until we were on the road. He said talking helped him forget the song, so he did a lot of it. I believe everyone else was asleep. And he shows up at the fire and starts talking about his time in the Chantry. I started to recognize some of the stories, like the time we were singing one of the choir songs and I heard someone near me muttering the wrong lyrics. Maker, when we realized we had trained together!”

The Commander’s voice was lighter, amused. Liandra hadn’t heard that tone in some time. She felt the smile creep onto her lips as she walked around the outside of her tower. She had missed it. They spent so much time with idle chatter, comfortable.

“Oh that is rich, Curly! I might have to use that.” Varric. She should’ve known.

As she crested the stairs, she swept the strap of her satchel over her head. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

The scratch of the chair startled her as the Commander shot up. “Inquisitor!”

Liandra raised a hand to him. Always so proper. She looked down to the table. He occupied his usual spot when they shared meals. He had kept his armor on, which was different. Varric sat with his back to the stairs. Parchment, ink, quills, reports, and journals littered the surface of the table. They fought for real estate with the bottles and mugs. Liandra could still smell the alcohol in the air. Her ears twitched.

Her satchel dropped on the couch by the stairs. “Settle down, Commander. I am not offended you are in my room, though I am curious as to why.”

The Commander’s cheeks were flushed, perhaps from over imbibing on the liquor. He sank back into his usual chair and ran a hand through his hair. “I… I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I was getting overwhelmed in my office. Varric thought it would be best if I took a break.”

Varric slid from his seat and raised a hand to her elbow. “Speaking of, could I talk to you for a second, Spitfire?”

Liandra recognized that tone. Fear tickled her aura. She attempted a smile. “Sure.”

Varric started to lead her around the table. The Commander made to stand again. “You stay there, Curly. I’ll bring Spitfire back in a second.” The Commander nodded numbly and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Liandra’s brow furrowed again. The Commander had been tipsy around her before, but Varric must’ve been plying him with a great deal of alcohol to have him so… out of sorts. Varric opened the door to the balcony. “How much have you given him, Varric?”

Varric gestured to the balcony. She sighed and moved out into the cold mountain air and Varric closed the door behind her. “Look, Liandra-“

“Varric.” Rarely did he use her name. Always nicknames. “What is going on?”

He took a deep breath and leaned in to check on the Commander. “You asked me to keep an eye on him, right? He… has been having some bad episodes.” Liandra straightened, her hands coming together in front of her. She hadn’t been here for him. “He tried to shove me out at first but I… I’m worried about him. Today he had another one of those flashbacks you warned me about. After he came out of it, I brought him here. Thought maybe if he got drunk he’d be able to loosen up, maybe forget for a little while. And he always seems to be better with you. Figured your room might offer some comfort.”

Liandra leaned a bit to look into her room, to check on the Commander. He took a swig from a mug and tilted a letter up to read. Her hands moved to the opposite arms. She had caused this. Set him back with her treatment. This was her fault. He was worse because of her. In danger because of her.

Varric’s assumption that he was better with her furrowed her brow. “He just needs people to support him, Varric, it’s not me.” She hadn’t told him the blame fell to her.

Varric’s brow furrowed in return. There was no charm or game below it, just honest confusion. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Liandra looked back to him. “See what? That he needs people there for him? Of course I do. That’s why I trusted you with this. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

Varric shook his head. “All right, okay. But something needs to be done. I… I don’t wanna watch Curly turn to shit like my brother. I don’t think I could handle losing someone else.” He chuckled slightly. “Even if that someone is Cullen.”

She pressed her lips together. Names again. Varric really _was_ worried. She hadn’t thought of that. She should’ve known better. Varric was the best candidate because he was discreet. And he was discreet because he’d been through worse. She lifted her hands and slid them around his shoulders.

“Ah, come on, Spitfire.” She chuckled and pulled him into an embrace. He lifted his hands to her sides, a chaste acceptance of her hug. “Thanks.” He nudged her with his release. “But come on, Curly will be happy to see you.”

She took a step back and opened the balcony door. She had to put on her happiest mask. This was not the time to dwell on the Commander’s symptoms. Not that he ever wanted to. “Not when I tell you who designed the men’s suits for the ball.” She strode through the doors and waited for Varric to slide through beside her.

Varric grinned slowly, making his way toward the table while Liandra closed the balcony doors. “Don’t tell me, the Lady Seeker?”

Liandra raised her eyebrows as she nodded. He had actually guessed. “The one and the same.”

The Commander lifted his weary gaze off the report he was reading. He should get back to his quarters, get some sleep, rest. “Welcome back. How did your talk go?”

Varric pat the upper arm of the Commander as he moved around the table. “Apparently the Lady Seeker designed the suits for the ball.” He hopped back into the seat he had been in before.

The Commander frowned slowly. His words were slightly slurred, but he sounded in control of his faculties. “You think so little of the Lady Seeker, but she has more depth and compassion than you realize. She is a beautiful, strong woman. Did you ever think that perhaps _you_ are the problem?”

Liandra froze. She looked down to the table. Of course. He admired Cassandra. That was why he had confided in her. She lowered herself into her usual place at the table and looked to Varric. “He has a point. She has tried to extend her friendship to you on multiple occasions and it is your prejudice that keeps her away.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Please, I am very charming.”

Liandra chuckled, glad of the shift in conversation. “Naturally! That was never in question. She loves your books. You even went out of your way to write her a new one. And yet you can’t stand to be in the same camp.”

The Commander shook his head with disapproval at Varric. Varric raised a hand. “Fine, fine. How about we get everybody together for another one of your dinner parties and we’ll see how friendly we are, hm? Maybe play a game of Wicked Grace?”

The Commander smiled slowly. “The Inquisitor is the best cook in Skyhold. You can count me in.”

Liandra felt the heat grace her cheeks. She would have to rid herself of these feelings. They were friends. “Sure, sure. Though I don’t have anything interesting to cook.”

The Commander pointed to Varric. “Don’t let her modesty fool you, Varric, this woman can make anything extraordinary. I made the mistake of calling her cooking _mundane_ before I had even tried it.” Varric chuckled amiably. The Commander shifted his gaze to her. There was such affection behind his golden hazel eyes, muted by the scars. “Nothing she does is mundane.”

Liandra’s brow lifted slowly as the Commander’s smile tilted with his head. His eyes stayed on her, memorizing her features, studying her. This was wrong. Wasn’t it? Her throat tightened up a bit, her ears twitching slightly. He was drunk. That’s all it was. He was just an affectionate drunk.

Varric cleared his throat. “Well, I should probably get going. Got plenty of work I’ve been putting off. Like a bunch of new ideas for _The Lion and The Halla_. Should probably jot those down before I forget.”

The Commander threw his hands up, eyes rolling. “Ugh! I told you it wasn’t a date!”

Liandra swallowed slowly. She recognized the change in tone, the title of a book, but she didn’t understand the meaning. “What wasn’t a date? You don’t have to go, Varric.” She shouldn’t be left alone with the Commander.

Varric smirked as he slid out of his chair. “Oh, don’t worry. Once I finish the first serial I’ll let you all read it. Besides, I think Curly would prefer your company without me getting in the way.”

Liandra glanced to the Commander. His eyes had shifted down to his reports, though he wasn’t reading any of them. “You two sounded like you were having a good time. I didn’t mean to interrupt. How about we-“

Varric waved from the stairs as he began his descent. “You two have a good evening, Spitfire.”

A silence descended between them as Varric made his way around the tower to the main hall. The Commander cleared his throat and reached for another report.

Liandra felt her ears sag, rise, twitch. “What were you two talking about, Commander?” Why was it awkward?

He took a breath and lifted his gaze to her. “The… Warden. Alistair? He was apparently with me in Templar training.”

Her eyebrows lifted. She chuckled slightly. “Thedas sure is small when you think about it.”

Another admiring smirk leveled on her. She shifted under his gaze. “Maker, you are beautiful, aren’t you.”

Her back stiffened. It wasn’t a question, it was a genuine observation. Wrong. “Yes, well, thank you Commander. But we should get you back to your office.” Her brow furrowed. Would he be able to climb the ladder into his loft?

He shook his head. “I’m perfectly happy right here, Inquisitor. I have a lot of work to do. It’s just so hard to think with all these smells and songs and thoughts. Have I ever told you how beautiful you smell?”

Liandra pressed her lips together. Beautiful. He had called her eyes that before. It was an observation of a part of her, not her. “Thank you, Commander. Are you sure? Would you like me to leave you be? Maybe call Leliana and Josie in here to pick up the work you took over for them?” She didn’t want to be alone with him. She couldn’t be.

He furrowed his brow. “Oh, I took care of their work first. They left me a light load and nothing too important came in while you ladies were gone.” His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, of course! Why not tell me of the shopping trip?”

She had to admit, the Commander had a surprising amount of control over his faculties for being drunk. “You heard Cassandra was the one that made the men’s suits?”

He nodded slowly. “I’m sure she made something sensible. Cassandra doesn’t appreciate a lot of finery. Though I imagine she would look splendid in something suited to her gender.”

Icy fingers laced around her heart. She embraced the despair and leaned forward. “We have had call to share a bath a few times. I must admit the Lady Seeker is quite pleasant to look at. She’s a remarkable woman. For a great many reasons.”

The Commander’s cheeks flushed and his eyes dropped. She swallowed as they lifted again, shifted to the side. Part of her wanted to ask where his thoughts had gone, where his eyes had fallen, but she couldn’t. The Commander was her friend.

“I’m sure she is, Inquisitor. But… She-… Maker…” He turned to the reports, a blush rising on his cheeks. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

Liandra furrowed her brow. “You’re just realizing this now, Commander?” The mention of Cassandra sent him into a spiral, a retreat. Frost chilled her heart.

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I should… Would you like to retire to my office? I left all the missives that came for you on your desk. Perhaps it will clear my head a bit to have us both back to work.”

Liandra clenched her jaw for a moment. She shouldn’t. He should rest. “Of course, Commander.”

He started to collect his reports and papers. She set to the task of collecting the mugs and bottles into a basket she kept for just such an occasion. With all of the mugs empty except for one, she placed them all carefully in the basket while the Commander filled his bag with his unfinished work.

“Why have you been asking about Cassandra?”

Liandra lifted her eyes to the Commander. His brow furrowed, his eyes sad. He appeared almost heartbroken. “She… The ladies were teasing her about you. You have quite the reputation as the pretty boy of the Inquisition, you know. And now that Cassandra’s _Swords and Shields_ secret is out…”

His lips pressed into a hard line. “That’s not very kind of you. She’s insecure enough about her love of that particular serial.”

Liandra inhaled slowly. He defended her. Her chest felt tight. “She says she isn’t interested. But if I know Cassandra, she’s interested, just doesn’t want to admit to any femininity. You should ask her.”

He paused in swinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Ask her what?”

Liandra checked her room for more plates or bottles or mugs. Anything to keep her eyes off him, to help her say the words. “On a date.”

The Commander laughed and moved toward the stairs. “Neither of us are interested, Inquisitor, I assure you. And even if we were, I would never. We work together. I wouldn’t want to… muddy the waters with some sort of dalliance. I care about her too much.”

Liandra’s brow furrowed. She turned to the stairs and felt the ice around her heart melt. They weren’t… She watched his mane descend the stairs, a tight grip on the railing. “Have you… discussed this with her before?”

He paused at the landing. “Cassandra? It… has come up before, yes. Mostly due to the constant meddling of Varric and Josephine. We approached the other about the rumors that the others had fed us and defined our relationship. If anything, she is like a sister to me.”

Liandra stopped at the top of the stairs. Sister. He wasn’t interested. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

The Commander chuckled and held a hand toward her. “You are in the field quite a bit, Inquisitor. Come, let us get that to the kitchens.”


	19. Share This Dance With Me

“ _Dirthara ma_. Why did I ever agree to this.” Liandra grunted, one eye closing.

Josephine, Vivienne, and a number of servants were gathered around Liandra's settee, trying desperately to get her hair to the specifications that she set weeks ago. They had worked on the mechanics of the desired hairstyle with Dagna’s help. Liandra sat for a number of attempts to execute the design to ensure its success. That didn't make the constant pull of her hair hurt any less.

The dress had to be put on first with a cloth had been draped over her shoulders to protect it from any makeup or hair products while they prettied her up. There were other servants applying makeup to her face, though Liandra wasn't sure why, if she were wearing a mask.

Josephine took a step back, tilting her head and moving around the Inquisitor. “There, I believe that is all of it.”

Once her makeup was finished and all the servants wandered off, their duties complete, Liandra heaved a sigh of relief and stood from her settee. She smoothed the front of her dress and wandered over to the full length mirror that stood in the corner of the room.

The light sparkled off the jewels in her hair, perfectly accented to match her hair, her eyes, and her dress. The mask she was handed made her eyes somehow look larger, brighter. Her vallaslin was on display, the makeup around it emphasized its design and color. Liandra raised her eyebrows slightly as her eyes fell to the rest of her dress.

The dress itself had only been put on her in the shop to ensure the fit. She hadn't looked at it, only confirmed with the other ladies that it did indeed fit. With the makeup, the design of her mask and hair, the dress, the tights, the shoes? This was a completely different Liandra that gawked out of the mirror at her.

“How do you like it, Liandra?” Josephine smiled over her shoulder in the mirror.

She wasn't sure what to say. Whoever this vision of loveliness was in the mirror, it couldn’t be her. A necklace was strung around her neck, green gems that played off her dress, off her eyes, off her vallaslin. Earrings were pressed through her earlobes and the other piercings she had along the length of her ears.

Josephine clasped her hands together under her chin. “That should be absolutely everything. You look wonderful, Liandra.” She turned away to check the inn room for anything she was forgetting. “I believe the menfolk, and Cassandra, have arrived at the Ball already. We should probably get going to avoid being horribly late, rather than fashionably.”

Liandra touched Josephine's elbow, distracted by the paint on her fingernails for a moment. The Antivan turned back to her. “Thank you, Josephine.”

An enigmatic smile played on her lips and her head bowed slightly. “You are very welcome, Liandra. Oh! And please do not forget your shawl.” She motioned to the extra fabric resting on the bed.

The ride to the ball was filled with compliments from the rest of the women in the carriage, the courtyard with stunned gasps as she exited the carriage, more compliments from the nobles that recognized her, though her sharp hearing picked up a few racial slurs whispered behind a few masks. The Duke had chuckled that her beauty rivaled that of Halamshiral, and she curtseyed ever so slightly, trying to remember which smile to use in the face of flattery.

The Winter Palace was as bright and shining a jewel as Josephine and Leliana had told her. Liandra struggled to remember everything her Keeper had told her about Halamshiral, The End of the Journey. This was once the Elvhen capital. When the Dales had been captured by Orlais, it became the Winter home for the royalty.

Liandra took a breath. She was Dalish, but that didn’t mean much now. She waited every day for that letter of disapproval from her Keeper. She had two names now instead of three. Liandra Elsin. No longer was she a Lavellan, especially not now.

She was used to eyes following her every move. The movement to the Grand Ballroom was much easier than she anticipated. For once, she had a reason to thank her clan for distrusting her. Being in the middle of so many still bothered her, but at least they were looking at her in awe rather than fear.

The steward approached and asked her name. She giggled coyly as Gaspard left her side. The Grand Duke was introduced and made his way across the ballroom. Liandra told the steward who she was. He apologized, citing the assumption from the Inquisition's previous attendees that she would be in uniform. She leaned in close and lifted her shawl to cover her painted lips. She offered him a compliment, accepted his apology, and dropped her shawl to show him a smile. The steward stood in stunned silence at the honesty.

As she descended the stairs after Gaspard's introduction, her eyes fell to the Commander. His hair was cleaner, smoother than when he wore his armor, his stubble still present. His suit was tight around his chest, fitted to tease the imagination with hints at what lie hidden underneath. His breeches were similar, his boots sharp and defined without the metal armor pieces. He glanced in her direction, but his eyes did not linger, assuming her another guest. As the steward introduced her, his eyes returned to her, his countenance shifting to one of utter disbelief.

She looked down, her hands holding the skirt up to ensure she did not step on it. The Commander moved from his spot at the wall to offer her his white gloved hand in assistance down the stairs. She saw movement from Leliana and Josephine over his shoulder but she couldn't hide the smile as he helped her down the stairs.

His eyes could not bear to leave her, the demons she saw swirling around him had nothing to do with rage or despair as they had before. His eyes darted over her form, drinking her in with every step. His eyes fractured with those scars again, his Maferath's knot sliding in his throat. The steward's voice spoke out the Inquisition's group, but Liandra could only hear the compliment uttered to her quietly by the Commander.

As their shoes tapped on the ballroom floor, the spell was broken. She didn't want his hand to leave hers, but he had to release her. The appearance must be maintained. She was Duke Gaspard's guest.

She greeted Empress Celene and made her way up the stairs back to the party. The Empress's Ladies-in-waiting caught up to her, complimented her dress, delivered a message. She wandered through the party, meeting several others that wanted to compliment her design choices, a few veiled insults at her Elven heritage and designs, and others that wanted to hear of the Inquisition. Only a few asked about the scars that peeked out from the neckline of her dress, the ones from the varterral or the Red Templars she had fought. Was that one from the magic you can do?

By the time she had escaped, made her way back out to the vestibule, Cassandra stood with a scowl in a group with a few of her Inner Circle. She moved to them immediately, thankful for a few genuinely friendly faces. She didn’t have to measure her words, to play coy, to play for dominance. She could just talk to them, like normal people.

Varric threw his arms towards her. “Why, Spitfire, I never knew you had it in you!”

Her lips pressed together, but she found herself smiling as the others agreed. “Thanks everyone. But look at you, Deshyr of House Tethras, don't you clean up nice.” She motioned to Cassandra. “The Lady Seeker’s design was to your liking, then?”

Varric raised a hand to his chest to smooth the sash. “It’s missing a special something.” Liandra tilted her head carefully, leveling him with a disapproving stare. “But she did a pretty good job.”

Cassandra’s brow lifted slightly. “Thank you, Varric.”

Liandra heard a snort and looked to Sera in the distance. “I can't believe she's having fun. Maybe... Keep an eye on her, Blackwall? Make sure she stays out of trouble for me?”

The Grey Warden nodded and headed toward the young elf, already imbibing too many glasses of champagne. Sera had also chosen to utilize the uniforms that the Inquisition wore, leaving Josephine, Leliana, Vivienne, and herself the only differently dressed. She had seen the others of her Inner Circle milling about at the ball, engaged in some manner of polite Game.

Varric tapped the Seeker on the hip. She growled down to the dwarf and he shook his head. “Come on, Seeker, I should introduce you to my friends in the Merchants Guild.”

Cassandra's defined brows furrowed, skeptical. “You don't _have_ friends in the Merchants Guild, Varric.”

He chuckled. “Exactly why you should meet them.”

Liandra caught the nod of his head and watched Cassandra's cheeks flush. “Oh, yes, of course.”

The two wandered off just as Liandra felt a tap on her shoulder. “Lady Inquisitor?”

The Commander's smile was far from chaste, and she felt new demons drawn to her. She smiled slowly, felt her shoulders raise as his eyes drifted over her neck, down to the corset. She appreciated his gaze more than she should. “Ah, Commander. Come to give a status report? How goes the search?”

He tilted his head slightly, the fabric of his suit jacket moving with him. It was odd to see him without his mane, but she had to admit she preferred it. So much of his form was absorbed by that mane, by the armor. Seeing his actual shape, of the musculature and intent of his movements. Everything his body did was gauged, purposeful. She hoped his good health would hold out for the night. And if it did not, she hoped they could find him a private area to suffer quietly.

“I, ah…” He cleared his throat, his eyes trailing down her body and back up. “I actually wanted to tell you how lovely-“ He laughed once. “What you ladies have done with your hair is amazing. And inspired.”

Her eyes shifted up as if to look at the horns. She chuckled slightly and dropped her eyes to the floor. The compliments from the other guests meant little. The Commander’s praise slipped under her mask, under her vallaslin. She wanted this. She wanted his eyes on her, wanted to feel beautiful in his eyes for once. She would have tonight. Then they would return to work.

She lifted her eyes to him, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. “Thank you, Commander. They worked very hard on making it just right.”

He lifted a hand toward her, thought better of the movement, and gestured to her ears. “I was unaware you had so many piercings.”

She chuckled and nodded. “It’s a funny story, actually. Remember how I said your pain threshold is tested? Well, you can choose a number of different ways. There was a City elf that wanted to join our clan that had a whole slew of piercings along her ears. So I asked if I could get them as well. So they became my test.” She turned her head and raised her fingers to feel along her ear. “It was… this one.” She shifted her finger to the side to point at the fourth piercing from the lobe. “This one that I was indifferent to. Which meant I was ready for my vallaslin.”

His eyes thirsted over her flesh when she turned her head back. His cheeks flushed. “And the rest were for…”

She chuckled. “Vanity. One of the very few things I take pride in.”

He lifted his chin slightly, nodding to someone over her shoulder. “And why do you not wear earrings more often?”

She turned her head slightly in the direction he had nodded. This was The Game. “Don’t let me keep you, Commander. We will see each other back at the inn once this whole mess is through.”

His eyebrows lifted. “We will…?” More demons surrounded him.

Liandra fussed with her shawl again. “Perhaps for a debriefing, or just to settle down in the company of true friends. If that is all right?”

He cleared his throat again. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He gestured back over his shoulder. “I've passed a bit of gossip on to Leliana, but I haven't heard that much about an assassin.” He shook his head. “Maker, I hate The Game and all of its nonsense. Finding the assassin would be so much simpler without all _this_.”

She barely caught his words and chuckled. “I'm sure our agents will be able to handle it.” Her brow furrowed. “Though, I'd be willing to have a look around myself. This ball is exhausting already.”

He smirked at her. She swore she smelled a musky cologne. “I suppose both of us should find a nice quiet spot for a distraction, wouldn't you say?”

She rolled her eyes and adjusted her shawl. “You have no idea how welcome that would be, Commander.” She had to keep her distance, especially here. They were friends. This was Orlais, this was The Game. “But we mustn’t forget that we play The Game, despite our objections to it.”

He sighed slightly, eyes falling to the tile of the palace. “Of course.” He raised a hand to the back of his neck. A habit she assumed was attributed to the mane, but with it gone, perhaps it had another catalyst.

She extended a hand toward him, but pulled it back quickly. “How are you feeling, Commander?”

He lifted his golden hazel eyes to her, fractured and broken by familiar scars. “Hm? Just as exhausted as you, I’m sure. I’m all right.”

She knew the answer even before she asked the question, but she had to. “How are your… symptoms? Have you found anywhere suitable should the worst happen?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Inquisitor…” Such affection hidden in his voice when he spoke her title. She felt more demons as he cleared his throat. “I had not considered it, but I will find somewhere suitable and keep you apprised in case you are in need of me.” He raised a hand between them, the fingers curling into a fist. “Ah… Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Liandra felt her eyebrows raise slightly. She had heard him tell her he would endure so often that she was sure that would be his answer. Instead, he had agreed and all but requested her presence should the worst happen. Her ears shifted back against her head, her eyes shifting to the side. They were friends. Friends.

Did friends fall in love?

Josephine caught her eye over the Commander’s shoulder. Liandra gestured for her to wait a moment. The Commander turned to the side and smiled to Josephine. Liandra chuckled and held a hand toward the Antivan. “Looks like I have to get back to work, Commander.”

He nodded. “Right. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.” The attempt at humor to hide the disappointment.

“Perhaps you could save me a dance?” She wasn’t sure what had made her ask. All those days of learning the steps, held by Josephine or Leliana. Was it because she wanted the Commander’s arms around her instead? No, she just wanted to cheer him up.

He shook his head, his eyes shifting to take in the party behind her. “No, thank you.”

Liandra felt her heart jump into her throat. Icy fingers brushed through her chest. “Oh.”

The Commander's cheeks flushed. “No! I didn't mean to- Maker's breath.” He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I've been bombarded with that question all night. Templars were never much for balls or dancing. I daresay I'd embarrass both of us.”

Liandra shook her head. The tendrils of frost escaped. He wasn’t rejecting her. “To be honest, I've only studied one dance at the harassment of Josie and Leliana. But I learned during the process that it can be very similar to a fight. With all your training, I'm sure you'd be marvelous.” The word felt unfamiliar on her tongue. “Ugh, it's getting worse. These _words_ are so unlike me.”

He chuckled with her. “I know how you feel, Inquisitor. And thank you. Perhaps we can share a dance when this whole mess with the assassin is over. I'll let you know when our soldiers have been snuck inside as well. Before that, do try to tread carefully.”

She nodded to him and he bowed to her, heels clicking together. Her eyes drifted down to watch as he made his way through the vestibule. Probably to the person that had grabbed his attention earlier. She swallowed hard and turned back around to Josephine. She had to do her part in the investigation. That was why she was here in person. She still had work to do.

\---

Liandra could barely focus on the new Emperor and his new Ambassador in the talks after Celene’s murder. It had been her decision to ignore the evidence and allow Florianne to plunge that dagger into the soft blue silks of the Empress’s dress. Fighting the nausea that threatened to expel all the hors d'oeuvres and wine took up a great deal of the Inquisitor’s concentration. It was her decision. She could’ve prevented it.

The Empress had served her country well, had done her best to be a beacon to the rest of the nobles. She had done so much, and the fruit of her labors rested in the pool of blood at the head of the ball. Gaspard and Briala seemed quite pleased with the outcome, despite Liandra's misgivings. Gaspard had won his war and Briala would get her station with which to make change for the Elves. And the Inquisition garnered an army and an agent. Liandra kept her smile, kept the pair on good terms, but she wondered if she had made the right decision.

Her Halla horns had started to fray after her battle with Florianne, though she knew it could've been worse. Dagna and the others had done well in their designs and execution. The new Emperor and his advisor had returned to the Grand Ballroom to announce his acceptance of the throne in the wake of his cousin's death and disavow all knowledge of his sister's involvement. Praise the Inquisition for uncovering this plot, blah blah blah. The danger was over, allowed to pass, but it could've been worse. Though Liandra wasn't sure how.

She leaned against the balcony railing and heaved a sigh. “There you are!” The Commander startled her. “Everyone has been looking for you.”

She stood back up and turned toward him. His eyes shone in the moonlight. She felt the tears pricking the edge of her eyes despite her attempts to lodge them in her throat. So much had been left to her. So much had been her decision. And despite her best efforts, those decisions led to deaths. Deaths she could’ve prevented. Why her? Why Celene? Why?

She could feel herself fraying at the seams, the mark in her hand sparking. Ice started to fill her veins, a despair demon whispering in her ears. She wished her mask were larger. “Commander...” Liandra had done her best to mask the pain, but her voice betrayed her. His title was delivered through a strangled sob.

His charming smile faded into worry and he raised a hand to press his white glove to the corner of her eyes. His thumb came back smudged with makeup. “Hush now, Inquisitor, what's wrong?” His voice was tender, laced with concern.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't know if they should flutter or churn. “I shouldn't have let her die.”

His eyes lifted to her hair as he brushed the loose strands back over her long ears, being careful of her piercings. “You did the right thing, Inquisitor...” There was such a broken affection in the use of her title. She hated it and loved it at the same time. His brow furrowed. “Perhaps we shouldn't have pushed you into that decision... I should've known better. After Therinfal, after Haven...” He took a step back from her. He didn't deserve to be in her presence, the demons swarming him as his head shook, apology and pain in his eyes.

The distance tugged at her, the demons piercing through her shell. Icy fingers touched her mind, wrapped around her chest, forcing a whimper from her. She shook her head. She needed someone. “Cullen.” He tensed at his name. “It's... Please don't-...”

The fear threatened to consume her, the despair whispering in her sensitive ears, the exhaustion at being around so many, of pretending to be something she wasn't. She held a hand out toward him. She needed him. Not Dorian, not Bull, not Varric or Cassandra or Cole. She needed the Commander. She needed _Cullen_.

His hand found hers and he grabbed it, pulled her close to his chest. She was glad of the height difference, shrinking into the Commander's large chest, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. She was careful not cry, not to rub her face into his chest. Instead she drew strength from his embrace, from his steady breathing, from his wrapping her into his protective aura. Much like she had done during his waking nightmare, during his withdrawal fits.

She heard his heart beating faster, felt his chin touch the edge of her hairline, careful not to mess up her hair any more. His chest rumbled as he muttered a chant, replacing the whispers of the demons. It was meant to soothe both of them, to give her strength, to forgive himself. She allowed the whispers to travel down her spine, to fill her stomach and calm the butterflies. Her hands slid around his waist, up his back to rest on the back of his shoulders. He was a stone breaking the rush of a waterfall, an oasis in the desert of the Winter Palace, a fire to warm the frost filling her body. The Commander acted as her shield against the demons that tormented her. He was her Templar.

What would her clan think of her, finding comfort in an ex-Templar? What would other _mages_?

As his chant faded away, Liandra heard the band start to play a new song. “Andraste preserve me... Liandra.” She felt herself squeak at her name from his lips. “Care for a dance?”

Her head lifted from his chest and she found a sad smile on his lips. She felt a bit better, stronger. The pain was there but she could endure for a bit longer. “I thought you didn't dance...?”

He lifted a gloved hand to her face, brushing the moisture off her cheeks. “If it will help you, I'd fumble through a dance. You asked earlier and... if it be the only recompense I can offer...”

She nodded slightly and took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure the dance would make her feel any better, but she wanted- needed his arms around her. She needed someone else to lean on. She needed him. His hands slid down to her hips and she returned her head to his chest. She was so tired, so weak. His finger tapped out a rhythm on her hip. Their feet moved in harmony, a slow box-step executed carefully.

His touch warmed her, fought away the cold night air, the chill that had threatened to envelope her heart. Florianne had danced that stupid fancy dance with her to gauge her, to trap her. She knew something wasn't right, but she had to investigate, she _had_ to. Celene had to die, she had to.

Maybe if she kept telling herself that, it would be true.

But the Commander thought it was. He had been one of the voices that convinced her to allow Celene to die. He had rarely, if ever, not done the right thing in service to the Inquisition. How could she argue that making Gaspard Emperor, that letting Celene be reduced to a blood stained dress wasn't The Right Thing To Do?

“Liandra...?” The word sounded familiar to his tongue, though unfamiliar to her ears. Her ears perked as it fell from his lips. The butterflies woke again. “Why do you prefer to address me as 'Commander'?”

Her feet hesitated for a moment, but their dance was not interrupted. “It... is your position. A position you have earned.” Solas's reason fell from her lips.

His chin rested between her horns again. “And yet you call the others by their names, going so far as to use Varric's nicknames.” He was fishing.

She sighed slightly. The fears caught in her throat and she raised her shoulders. “I'm afraid.” She spoke the words directly over his heart, barely above a whisper.

His hands met at the small of her back, to envelope her further. “Of what...?” She could feel her name fighting to drip from his tongue like the sweetest honey.

“I can’t-... It's easier to pretend.” It wasn't a lie, but she had to hold back. She was an elf, she was the Inquisitor. And he… He was a former Templar. He was a shemlen. He was her Commander.

She heard him hum, a confirmation. “I will endeavor to call you Inquisitor, then.” Part of her had wished he had prodded, wanted to know why, fought her.

“No.” The word left her before the thought entered her mind.

His hands slid up her back, over the fabric, onto the bare area she had exposed. She felt the tingle, the sparks under her skin as his calloused fingers brushed over the bare skin. “No...?” Hope filled the single word.

She fidgeted slightly, trying and failing to fight the purr. “No...”

His fingers found her neck, skin on skin. “As you command, Liandra.” Her name fell from his lips, a warmth that spread through her chest. His touch was soothing, easily dismissing the demons from clawing at her mind. She lost herself in the simple touch, the callouses on his battle-worn fingertips.

The band's song faded, but Liandra did not hear the silence that followed. All she heard was the Commander's melody.


	20. Spitfire and Brimstone

Several days had passed since the Inquisition's return from the Winter Palace. Liandra sat in judgment of Florianne's corpse. The dress and mask Liandra had worn to the ball ended up in her closet, carefully stored, most likely never to be worn again. The jewels had been on loan from a lesser known jeweler in Ferelden. They were returned with a compliment from the Inquisitor. Both the tailor and the jeweler wrote of their increase in customers just days after the ball.

There had been meetings. Several meetings with nobles impressed with her at the ball. Meetings with nobles politely displeased with her inability to save the Empress. Others that were displeased with Gaspard. Others that were happy to see Briala putting Gaspard in his place. Orlais did not tired of the mountains of Skyhold for several days after the events at the Winter Palace.

Liandra most certainly did. She escaped from the main hall, from Josephine’s clutches, as often as she could. The Game was tiresome, was unlike her. She hated it. She needed time with those that she could be herself around.

Her feet often took her to the bridge between the library and the Commander’s office. The office they shared. She could hear Solas pacing, flipping pages in some book or other. Or sometimes he would be scratching his quill over new notes on Rift magic. Dorian would occasionally call down to the elven mage. Liandra stood on the other side of the door, staring at the Commander’s tower, willing herself to just visit him.

She had startled several visitors when she scrabbled down the edge of the bridge to wander the rest of Skyhold’s grounds.

Liandra wasn’t avoiding him, not really. They were still friends. That was what they had always been. She kicked a rock on her way past the tavern. They were just very good friends. There was no need to avoid him. But that dance. She spun through the dilapidated tower at the top of the stairs. The dance had been special. She had never felt so secure, so free to feel. The demons had been pushed away, the ball, the music. She hadn’t felt any of it.

“Oh! Inquisitor.” A messenger almost bumped into her. “Apologies, ma’am.”

Liandra smiled politely and shifted out of the messenger’s way. The Commander lingered at the door to their joint office. Liandra felt the demons closing around her. The light had gone out in his eyes when he looked at her.

“Were you looking for me, Inquisitor?” The warmth occupied his voice, but he smile he offered was broken.

She shook her head. “Not just yet, Commander. I’ll see you at the meeting this afternoon.”

\---

“I have received a number of letters asking after our Commander's lineage from a few interested parties at the Winter Palace.” Josephine's papers fluttered on her clipboard as she scanned for a code from the War Table.

Liandra shifted her weight. Icy tendrils pressed through her chest, the demon growing ever closer. She met the Commander’s eyes for a moment. He hesitated. She could feel his aura searching for hers, feel the demons press in around the pair of them. What he was searching for, she wasn’t sure.

“What?” The Commander's cheeks flushed as he turned on Josephine. “Andraste preserve me. Feel free to use those letters as _kindling_. Skyhold gets rather cold at night and I'm sure we could save on the wood supply.”

Leliana raised a hand toward Josephine, trying and failing to stifle her giggle. “No! Forward them to my office. I would love to know who _pines_ for our Commander. We could use it to our advantage.”

Liandra couldn't stop her eyes from lifting to the red cheeks of the Commander. The attention was clearly unwanted. “I will not be used a bait!” He protested vehemently.

Leliana placed a hand on the Commander's upper arm. He frowned, shoulders raising, forcing the fur around his shoulders to shroud his features. He resembled a pouting young boy. “Hush, Commander. Just look pretty.” He crossed his arms at this, completing the transition from Inquisition Commander to petulant child. “Though I'm sure they are only being so aggressive because they saw you dancing with the Inquisitor near the end of the ball.”

Josephine huffed. “You didn't dance with anyone else at the ball, either. Even the Inquisitor utilized my dance lessons to impress the court with Florianne.” She tapped a page. “Ah, here it is. Dagna is requesting aid for research.”

Liandra glanced around at her advisors. Each one offered her a solution, though the Commander was not as enthralled by the enthusiastic Arcanist. Liandra set Leliana's people on it, Leliana seeming the most excited to learn more and help a former acquaintance. All the missions on the War Table had been discussed. Liandra called an end to the meeting.

“You were on that balcony for quite some time, now that I think about it.” Leliana's hood lowered, obscuring the Lady Nightingale's countenance. “I suppose you had much to discuss after the events at the ball?”

The Commander gathered his things. “Nothing of consequence.” She watched him move around the War Table.

Evasive. Liandra’s ears twitched.

Josephine jotted the changes down on her clipboard. “She hasn't really discussed it with us.”

The Commander paused at the door to Josephine’s office and shrugged. He glanced between Leliana and Josephine. He did not look to Liandra. “The Inquisitor and I are friends.”

Liandra’s eyes fell. Friends. She felt the icy tendrils fill her chest. She had been doing everything in her power to forget what had happened at the ball. The way his voice had filled her belly, the way his fingers felt on her ears, on the back of her neck. It made it that much harder to work with the Commander. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be _friends_ with him.

Josephine piqued her eyebrows, smoothing the parchment on her clipboard. “The rumors circulating the guests would suggest otherwise, Cullen.”

Liandra had to change the subject, find something else to focus on. “How do you suppose Lady Morrigan is settling in?”

Leliana smirked. The Nightingale’s fingers stretched in a motion toward the Inquisitor, but she looked to the Commander. “She has a tendency to change the subject, much like that. Perhaps you could shine some light on what happened?”

The Commander's eyes met hers for a moment. She felt her heart jump into her throat, feeling the demons pushed her way instead of his usual protective aura. He furrowed his brow and opened the doors to the War Room. “As I said, nothing of consequence. If she does not wish to discuss it, I will not betray her trust. We are the Inquisition, not gossiping nobles in Val Royeaux.”

Liandra lifted her gaze to his retreating back. He was unhappy with her, unhappy with the position she had placed him in.

“He seemed abnormally curt, don’t you think, Liandra?” Josephine placed a hand on her shoulder.

Liandra jumped at the touch, pulled from her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder. Josephine had called her by name.

Leliana moved to the door. “He continues to address you as Inquisitor as well. Perhaps the rumors were baseless, Josie.”

Liandra took a step forward as the Commander opened the door to the stairwell outside Josephine’s office. She plastered a fake smile on her lips. “I told you, nothing happened at the ball. We just spent some time going over what had happened.” She waved to them. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Leliana and Josephine’s chuckles followed her through Josephine’s office.

“Commander?” Liandra found her voice just as they entered the main hall.

The Commander turned on his heel, the warmth she sought missing from him. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

His golden hazel eyes had been much darker since the ball. She wanted to see that light again. Ice threatened at the edge of her chest. They were friends. They were colleagues. “Thank you for… not discussing what happened with them.”

He nodded once, but did not speak. Frost gathered in her chest.

“Should-“ His eyebrows lifted when the word left her, sounding more a tic than an actual word. She cleared her throat. _Should we perhaps discuss what happened?_ Just ask him.

“If that is all, Inquisitor.” He wanted to escape her. Her eyes fell away, toward the pyramid across the hall. “By your leave.”

The Commander bowed to her and the distance between them spread. She knew he would return to his office, _their_ office, to work. Liandra lingered at the end of the main hall, her hands moving to the opposite elbows. This was her fault, her doing. She had allowed herself a moment of weakness. And he paid the price. He suffered due to her selfishness. They were friends. She was his Inquisitor. She was a Between. She wasn’t worthy of what she desired.

Her eyes followed the path he took, past Varric. The dwarf’s ginger ponytail lifted to watch the Commander wander by. He offered the man a greeting. The Commander nodded in return, but did not stop. Varric’s brow furrowed, his eyes drifted down the main hall to catch hers. She looked away from the author and cleared her throat.

The gala had lingered in her chest, drawing demons to her in the night. Normally she kept them away with his voice, memories of his cooling touch, but memories of that night only pulled more to her. Nightmares of the Envy-Commander, of the Keeper, of the Fear demons. Most times she could only get to sleep when she focused on the protection his arms offered her when the demons pierced her aura. The smell of his cologne, the firmness of his chest, the fading callouses on his fingertips as they brushed the back of her neck.

Weakness. Sentiment. She didn’t deserve her vallaslin.

“Hey, Spitfire.” Liandra started at the sudden appearance of the dwarf at her side. “You okay?”

She offered him her strongest smile, but she could see he didn’t believe it. “Of course, Varric. Just… Long meeting, tough decisions. You know.”

She made to turn away, to return to her quarters. Varric grabbed her wrist. “Spitfire.” A demand. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you and Curly have been acting?”

Liandra shifted uncomfortably. Of course Varric would notice. She shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong, Varric.” She headed for her quarters.

Varric hesitated. She turned the hook on her door. “Spitfire! You’re making a mistake.” She sighed and moved through her door. Varric caught it before she could close it. “Whatever is going on between you and Curly you need to put to bed.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. The frost in her chest melted to a mist, fire spreading through her limbs. “I don’t recall inviting you in, Varric.”

He shook his head. “Unwelcome tagalong, then.” His reference to their first meeting brought a smirk to her lips. “You and Curly used to be friends and now you can barely speak to each other. What happened between you two?”

She closed her eyes. If she trusted anyone to talk this over with, it was Varric. She opened the door and gestured to the stairs. “Come in, Varric.”

Varric took a breath and crossed to the stairs. Their ascent into her room silent enough to hear their footsteps echo off the walls. Varric crested the stairs and took up a position by the chair near the fireplace.

Varric crossed his arms. “Tell me why your fire is going out.”

Liandra’s eyes fell to the table. It had been clean of dinner for several days. She had taken her dinners with the others since the ball, instead of with the Commander. “I messed up, Varric.”

Varric nodded slowly. “I gathered that much.”

Liandra turned away. She moved to the couch and sunk into it. “Varric, I got too close to him.”

Varric pulled the chair out beside him. “That can’t be all of it, Spitfire.”

“At the ball… You know how much I hate… letting others die.” Varric nodded as he climbed into the chair. “I… The Empress’s death, I could’ve prevented it. She didn’t have to. I… I still haven’t really come to terms with it.” She glanced to him. She couldn’t look at him. “It was harder at the ball. I was trying to convince myself, trying to… I don’t know, recover, to get myself prepared to return to the Game, something. The demons were close, closer than ever, and I was weak.”

She attempted a cleansing breath. “The Commander found me on the balcony.”

Varric shifted in the seat. “I recall.”

She shook her head. “Did he tell you what happened?”

Varric shrugged. “Curly’s a pretty private person when it comes to you. Only reason I learned so much when you went shopping was all the alcohol I fed him.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I haven’t told anyone either. Because I was stupid.” She closed her eyes. “I needed someone to help me. So I let him. I let him hold me, wipe the tears from my eyes, call me by name.”

Varric’s brow lifted. “What’s wrong with that?”

Not everyone held names in such high regard. Liandra had only allowed her Inner Circle to address her as Spitfire, Herald, or Inquisitor in the beginning. It had taken some time for her to approve the use of her name. She had rarely been worthy of it after being identified as Fade-touched. Varric had never had that problem.

“A mage has to remain unflinching, stoic in the face of so many events. Because we are prey to demons. Demons feed on the emotions of a mage to possess them.” She rubbed her fingers together. “I almost let them in that night, Varric.”

The weight of her confession filled the space between them. “But you didn’t.” Fear lined his question, selfish worry first, worry for his friend behind it.

Liandra shook her head. She had been so close, so close to becoming an abomination. “The Commander saved me. He kept them at bay. But I was weak. And I couldn’t keep all of my feelings hidden.”

Varric lifted his chin. “That’s good though, isn’t it, Spitfire? You and Curly finally-“

“No!” Liandra furrowed her brow. Why didn’t he just understand? So few of her friends understood. “Varric why would you even suggest-“

Varric slipped from the chair. “Look, Spitfire, I know you have this bullshit ingrained in you from your ass-backwards Dalish clan about how you shouldn’t be happy because you’re a disgrace, you’re an affront to the Maker, or the Creators, or whatever. Or maybe you think that since you and Curly have to work together you shouldn’t try it. Whatever is holding you back, Liandra, you **have** to let that shit go.”

He walked around the table. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. I’ve heard how you two talk about each other. I’ve heard the gossip around Skyhold.” His hand found her knee. “You and Curly need to just take the leap.”

Liandra glared at his hand. That fire scorched her limbs. No one understood. “I didn’t ask for advice, Varric. And you’re one to talk. Why didn’t you take your own advice and take a leap with Bianca, Master Tethras?”

Varric’s hand drew back as if burned. “You know the situation with Bianca quite well, Liandra.” His eyes narrowed. “If Curly saved you from those demons after the shindig at the Winter Palace, maybe that should be a good enough reason for you to put aside your fears. Because you need an exorcism right about now.”

He shook his head and turned away. Liandra’s chest filled with ice, her limbs chilled. Varric had only been trying to help, trying to console her. “Varric-“

He paused at the top of the stairs. “You love him, Liandra. And from the way he’s suffering, he loves you, too. The only person you have to blame for your misery is yourself.” Venom dripped from every syllable. She deserved all of it. “How long will you fight, Liandra, before you finally allow you and Curly some happiness?”

Varric descended the stairs quickly, leaving her alone with her pain. He was wrong. They were just friends. Weren’t they? Could she truly love him? Were Fade-touched allowed to love?

She swallowed and stood. The ice in her chest thawed. She was a Lavellan no longer, she could set the rules for herself. If she wanted to, if she was careful, she could love. She had argued, fought. She had done so much that her clan would not approve of.

How long would she allow them to dictate her actions? How long would she limit herself based on unfounded prejudices? She was the Inquisitor. She made the rules.

Varric was right. She had to try. She had to absolve herself, to absolve him. She had to give them both some semblance of freedom. She had to tell him her true feelings. If he did not accept them, at least she could make a plan to move on.

But if he did?

She smoothed the front of her dress. She had to apologize to Varric.


	21. Do You Want This

He had been spending most of this time trying desperately to focus on the reports on his desk, on the books and stratagems he should be kept updated on, of anything that wasn't _her_. Every thought of her was burned into his mind, under his skin. The way she laughed melodically at his anecdotes, the way her eyes lit up at his tales. The vibrancy of her hair, the vulnerability she shared only with him when she told stories of her clan. The care and thought she put into every decision, every judgment, every action. Her fearlessness, her compassion, her-

The lyrium withdrawal brought with it several symptoms; aches, burning, nausea, dizziness, mood swings. Most days, he could control it. Thoughts of her had intensified every burning pain. Scorches lit the black behind his eyelids. Cackles of desire demons filled his dreams, taunted him with visions of her bare legs, the wisps of her red hair curling around her collar bone, bright green eyes piercing the darkness.

He rarely slept through the night. Even when she had healed the dying lyrium in his body, he was haunted by the nightmares, the memories. Claws and blood, torture in the form of giggles and kisses that broke the skin. But the feel of her body pressed against him at the ball, the slow, lackadaisical dance they had shared burned him during his waking hours. Lyrium dulled the senses, had been known to cause memory loss...

“Commander?”

He gasped slightly. “Inquisitor! You startled me.” Seeing her only reminded him of how she had distanced herself after the gala. He reached for another report, but did not yet read it. The claws raked under his skin.

He could see how tight her smile was, could feel the stress in her bright green eyes. “Commander, might I have a word?” He nodded absently. He had to maintain his professional relationship with her. “A-alone.”

He tensed. He struggled to offer her a warm smile, but he felt the chill in his chest. “Alone?” He wanted to find a reason, an excuse, anything to say no, to quell the fires before they consumed him. Her eyes begged him for this opportunity, and he felt scars burn under his skin, despite his attempts to block it. He had to acquiesce, to maintain a professional relationship with her. “O-of course, Inquisitor.”

She waited for him to cross his office and exited before him. “Thank you, Commander.” Her voice unsteady, her frame seemed smaller than usual. He hoped this was still a professional meeting.

He followed and closed the door behind him. Hall waved to him as he walked by with the Inquisitor. Liandra waved back, a bright smile for the archer and his companions. A smile he had not seen since the ball. Something had changed.

He watched her hands flex, lift, shift with a speech she attempted to gather the courage to share. Terror passed through him. Surely her change in mood had something to do with the gala. She must be there to tell him that he should find a replacement, things had grown too tense between them. She couldn’t work with him. The research team had determined he only had so much time to live before the lyrium ate him from the inside.

He became acutely aware of the sun shining down through a thin cloud cover. The fur that surrounded his shoulders itched at the back of his neck. He lifted his hand to scratch it. “It's a-uh, nice day.” He laughed nervously as the words left him, fully aware of their stupidity.

“Pardon?” Was her uneasy response.

He lowered his hand. “It's-” Not the point. He took a deep breath and mustered his courage. He was a Commander, a soldier, a skilled former Templar. “There was something you wished to discuss?”

She stopped walking beside him. It took him a moment to register. He stopped, turned back to her, brow furrowed. “Commander...” Rarely did she use his given name. He heard it whispered under his title. “I wanted to apologize for... avoiding you. Since the ball.”

He arched a brow, feeling the spite rise on his tongue. “I told you I wasn't such a good dancer. You wouldn't believe me.” He opted for humor. It wasn’t her fault. He had pushed her too far that night.

She giggled slightly, but her eyes drifted to the mountains as her mirth died on the wind. “There's something... I've been trying to fight, Commander.”

His head tilted. “I find it hard to believe that you would have trouble in combat, Inquisitor. Shouldn't you see Dorian or Solas or someone more suited to your particular brand of battle prowess to help you?”

She shook her head and her hand found his glove. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and she slowly lifted her eyes to him. “Co-... Cullen.” His ears moved back, the usual din of Skyhold faded from his senses and his eyes noticed only her. His name loaded with more than just the letters that it contained. Her tongue flashed over her lips as she inhaled. “I... You are-...” Her lips pressed together for a moment.

The time for spite and professional courtesy was past. She needed him. “Whatever you've been fighting, Inquisitor, let me help you.” He felt the words fill his chest, threatening to fill him beyond reason. He wanted to hold her again, to keep her safe from the demons he could feel all around her. He had to keep this professional.

“I can't fight it anymore... I pray to the Maker and the Creators...” Her green and yellow eyes lifted to him. “I care for you, Cullen, as more than just a trusted advisor. As more than just 'the Commander'.” Cared for him…? The embers warmed under his skull. She hesitated and he felt fear pool in his gut. “I'm just afraid that... That my being a mage, or the Inquisitor, or an elf, or- How am I to know if you feel similarly or- If you could even think of me as-”

His brow furrowed, a gloved hand reaching for her. “You're worried about...” She looked away, over the ramparts to the mountains. His back straightened, his brow lifting over his eyes. She had been worried about the same things. _She felt the same_. His brow lowered and he nodded. “I do... think of you.” He chuckled nervously and turned away. “And what I might say in this sort of situation.”

He saw her raise her head again, her ears perk. “You-... What's stopping you from saying it...?”

He sighed and raised a glove to his face. She had surrendered herself to his kindness. She was terrified. He swallowed hard. “As you say, you're the Inquisitor.” He needed something sturdy, something solid beside him. He shifted closer to the wall, his glove leaving her hand. “We're still at war.” He felt her move up beside him, could hear her quickened breath. “I just... I didn't think something between us possible. Or appropriate.” He glanced sidelong to her, hoping his words did not sting.

She nodded beside him, her hands moving to hold the opposite elbows. “Right... Of course... I should probably let you get back to work then.” Her head angled slightly toward him, a small nod, and she turned toward the stairs behind them.

“Liandra!” Her name had been just behind his lips, on the tip of his tongue so many times. She froze immediately, her ears rising slightly on the side of her head. “You misunderstand...” She looked away from his voice. He set his jaw and moved to take her upper arm.

She moved at his gentle urging, pulling her back to the battlement. He needed to keep her from running again. He shifted himself in front of her. He felt a tightness in his chest, felt the scars burn hotter. He smirked at them, a reminder that he may be damaged, but he wasn't broken. Her eyes emitted a slight glow, her left hand illuminating her right side. He watched her eyes dart over his face, taking in every part of it, memorizing his features. _She felt the same_.

“You pushed me away so often and-” Her hands found his cheeks, an invitation, an apology. His skin burned under her touch, a warmth that stung and fueled him. “I didn't want to ask, to push. It seemed too much. You weren't ready. And with everything I've put you through-”

Her head shook. “No! You've protected me, been my shield.” Her fingers grazed his earlobe and he closed his eyes. The sensation filled him, moved down his back and excited him. “You rescued me, Cullen.” Her voice speaking his name brought a slight moan into his throat. “You have been my absolution.”

He opened his eyes to her. Her brow was knit, cheeks flush. She was beautiful, perfect. He felt the demons, felt the need from both of them. Her other hand found his waist, pulling him closer. She needed him closer.

He could feel himself drifting, falling away from Skyhold and his rank. Her soft fingers roughened only slightly by the constant use of her staff grazed his sensitive earlobe, and he felt the fires consume him. He needed to touch her, to ground himself somehow.

He leaned close to her, inhaling her scent in the cool mountain air. She lifted her head, craned her neck to offer herself to him. She wanted this, needed this. Maker, he had wanted it, too. She was so much shorter than him. He leaned further, felt her soft, scarred lips brush his. The fires burned, and he gave himself to the flames.

“..ommander!” A door slammed behind him. He pulled far enough away to meet her eyes, if only for a moment. Her hands pulled away from him immediately. He could feel her running again, her aura retreating back to her. Her cheeks flushed, her ears red. So close. “You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report.”

She looked away from the messenger, from him. His gloved hands lifted off the wall and he turned on the man. “What!” The fires had not calmed.

“You said right away, ser.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched. He feared the things he might say or do to the young man, the anger he felt boiling in his gut. He felt his face contort into something akin to a demon. The young man cowered and glanced to the Inquisitor. “Or... to your office. Right away!” The young man scurried off.

“If you need to-”

And like that he was on her, mind burning as he partook of her soft lips, tasting of cream and herbs. Her small face captured in his large hands, warm and whole and real. His chest felt full to bursting, his throat tightening as she struggled against him, surprised at the sudden kiss. His lips crushed hers in desperation, in something he wanted to say without words, a promise, a plea, a vow. He needed her to understand.

As she calmed, she returned the kiss, her arms looping around his neck. She pushed as much of herself into the kiss as she could, including a bit of her magic. It washed over him from her lips, from her fingertips at the back of his neck. She purred into his lips, pressed her body against his armor. He damned it to the fiery pits, wished he didn't have to wear it at all times. As the magic washed through him, it ignited the lingering lyrium, ignited the scars from the demons.

It was him that pulled away first, the burning too much for him to endure silently. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the pain with a small grunt. She immediately extricated herself from him at the noise. “I'm sorry...” He wanted to move away, to shame himself for his actions. He was her Commander, she his Inquisitor. But her eyes were so vibrant in that moment.

He thought of Haven, when she clung to him, when she tried to crawl after him despite her pain. How terrified he was when she went to fight the Archdemon alone. He knew he needed to coordinate the refugees, the forces, the civilians, but he needed to keep her safe. She was the Herald of Andraste, the only one with the power to close the rifts. The only one he felt comfortable around after everything he'd been through. And to find her again after the avalanche that buried Haven, the way his name fell from her lips in her stupor, he remembered how hard it was for the others to push him away. He had uttered her name then, the Elven name perfect on his tongue.

“Cullen.” His name again. Her eyes searched his. “Why are you sorry?”

His gloved hands fell from her cheeks and he swallowed hard. “I... forced myself on you. I should've asked.”

Her head shook and her hands found his. Her eyes had not left his since their lips separated. “You did ask. Before the messenger-” Her eyes drifted over his shoulder to the door. She cleared her throat. “You should probably get back to work.”

His brow furrowed. He could feel her pulling away again, retreating back into their positions. He recognized the tact, having used it so many times himself. He grabbed her hand. “Liandra-”

She shook her head. “I shouldn't pull you from your duties, Commander.” His name was gone. The distance between them spread, and he felt pain building in his chest. “I have a few things to take care of myself.”

Her hand drifted out of his glove and he watched her head for the stairs. “Liandra?” She did not stop, disappearing down the battlement steps.


	22. Consummation

He had spent the rest of the day in his office catching up on work to ensure that his night was clear to spend with her. He was determined, focused, elated. _She felt the same_. The messenger that gathered up all his missives at the end of the day mentioned that this was perhaps the most he had ever sent out. Once the messenger was gone, Cullen climbed the ladder into his private quarters. He set himself to the task of removing his armor.

The removal of his armor took longer than he had been anticipating. The tremors had gotten worse in his hands. Nerves, he decided, didn't help with the lyrium withdrawal symptoms. A practiced hand, muscle memory, and determination shifted the armor to the stand by his dresser. A breeze swept through his quarters from the broken rooftop and he glanced up to see snowflakes fluttering through the opening like fluffs of cotton. He frowned and put the red and gold vest and the fur-lined coat back on. The gloves covered his hands again, and he made his way back down the ladder.

He turned to the door opposite his desk and stopped. The Inquis- Liandra stood in front of the door, hand still holding the ring that pulled it closed at the small of her back. He felt the elation build in his chest, but it lodged in his throat, stoppered by fear.

“Cullen.” Her head lifted, her eyes glowing faintly in the darkened tower. The way she said his name chilled him to the bone. He prayed he would never hear it that way again.

He took a cautious step forward. “Liandra...?”

Her hand glowed slightly as she moved to hold herself. “There will always be more work, won't there...?” He could see the pain and fear and sorrow.

“More work…?” He through to the possible context, to what the question asked. The messenger that interrupted them on the battlements flashed in his mind. “You’re worried about the Inquisition?” Her ears sagged, her head turned slightly to her desk. “Our friendship has never endangered the Inquisition before.” She tensed at the qualification of their relationship. He pressed his lips together. “And if we enter into something… more, then I do not believe either of us will allow the Inquisition to suffer.”

Her eyes closed. He shifted nervously. “Liandra-“

“We’re friends.” The words fell in an accusation. He felt the demons in the room.

“Only if you want to stop this, Inquisitor. I will not push you into something.” He took another step forward. She needed him again. And this time, he knew she wanted him to. “But if I’m not mistaken, you pulled me from our office to confess your feelings for me.” Her tongue clicked, ears flattened against her hair. “I do not take your feelings lightly, Liandra.”

Her shoulders lifted. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He froze. “There are more important things. Red Templars, refugees, Venatori, Corypheus-“

Cullen took another step forward. Too close for her to open the door and run. “Your feelings, your happiness is just as important to as the war. The Inquisition suffers when you suffer.” He set his jaw. She needed to understand. “This war won't last forever. The Inquisition will prevail. When it started, when Cassandra offered me this position, I hadn't considered much beyond closing the Breach and keeping the world safe.” He held a gloved hand out to her. “But things are different now...”

Her brow furrowed, her green eyes lifted to his. “Different?” The low tones of her voice tickled his ears.

Cullen moved closer, his hand spreading out against the wood of the door. He could feel the burn of the desire demon’s scars. She was so small, so anxious. He wanted to show her, to feel her lips again. The leather of his glove creaked and he indulged her question. “I find myself wondering what will happen after.” Her ears perked. “When this war is over, when we stop Corypheus.” Her eyes were beautiful. “I don't want to just… move on.” He raised his other glove to her face. “Not from you.”

Liandra nuzzled into his hand, eyes closed, indulging herself in his leathered touch. He smiled warmly, the scars burning hotter. His fingers brushed her ears and he heard a soft moan escape her. His breeches shrunk suddenly and he broke her gaze. He was a lech, a fool. He pulled away from her, removing his hand. He had to get away from her, from the burn.

“I'm sorry. I go too far. I don't even know if-” He sighed and his fingers brushed his desk. Reports scattered all over it. He set to the task of organizing them, anything to keep his mind clear, to steer him from the unsavory thoughts. She felt the same, but she had distanced herself.

He felt her approach, but he tried to ignore it. He had to control himself. “Cullen.” But his name on her lips. She grabbed his hand, moving it to allow her to block his access to his desk.

Her eyes, her ears, her body. He read it all and felt the heat again, this time fueling him. “I'm so bad at this. You deserve more than me.” She raised a small warm hand to his cheek. Her lithe fingers danced over his jawline, feeling the stubble there, to his earlobe. He grunted in pleasure as she teased it, massaged it with her fingers. “You deserve better.” He moved closer to her despite himself. She smiled up to him.

She leaned back as he leaned closer. Her other hand moved to keep her steady against the desk, shifting further as he leaned closer. Was she afraid? Was he pushing? Would she have stopped him already? The fires in his skull, in his veins, did little to stop him. They no longer hurt, they warmed. He needed her to keep them stoked, to keep his chest alight. He needed her.

“Cullen…” Her breath warmed his lips. Her eyes glowed gently. “ _You_ are what I want.” Her head tilted her lips toward his. He leaned closer, forcing her to pull back again. She tempted him, controlled him. “What do you want?”

He swallowed, struggling to breathe. He drowned in her scent, in the touch of her fingers to his jaw. “I want-“

He heard the glass wobble on the desk. He took a breath, a gasp as the bottle shattered on the floor beyond his desk. She jumped, a small squeal escaping her. Her brow knit, but they dared not look away from each other. Whatever courage she had mustered to offer herself to him, offer him everything she was, rested in his eyes.

Her fingers stretched toward his ears again. He could wait no longer. The fires burned, consuming him. He had to act, lest he be lost. His gloved hands gripped her face. Her eyebrows and ears lifted. He searched her eyes, followed the swirls of her tattoo. She did not rebel. He pulled himself down to her, his lips crashing against hers. She moaned into his lips, her hands finding his waist over his many layers.

Her body moved closer, pressed against his. He could feel her small frame against his, felt the need rise, the desire to make her belong to him. She wanted him. She needed him. He pulled her closer, pushed against her. She grunted gently as she bumped into his desk. He deepened the kiss, swore he could hear the cackle of a demon in the distance. He broke the kiss for a moment to breath. She whispered his name against his lips. He opened his eyes to her. Fear had no place in her eyes.

There was entirely too much on his desk. He stepped to the side and swept his arm over it. Reports and maps flew off, wafted to the floor. She gasped beside him. The few bottles that had been on his desk clattered to the floor as well, though they did not break.

He turned back to her, shucking off his fur lined coat. “Andraste preserve me, I am damned for the things I do.”

He grabbed her waist and hoisted her onto his desk. She squeaked, her knees on either side of his hips. _She wanted this_. Her fingers found his earlobe again and he moaned his way to her lips. She squeaked as he crushed her lips with his, consumed by the fires of his scars. They burned to fuel him, to remind him of what he forsook.

She moaned into his lips and he pushed her back, leaned her further. She held onto him, fearing the drop. He placed a hand on the small of her back. Her back arched reflexively, pushing her body firmer against his. Her body was smaller than his, to be sure, but he could feel the muscles, the curvature of her backside. She wasn't just a warrior, a mage, the Herald, the Inquisitor. She was a woman, luscious curves and sweet smells, everything that he was not.

She whimpered under him, her ankles locked together behind his backside. Her hips lifted her toward him, and he pulled back instinctively. She broke their kiss, concern etched into her features. He shook his head, apologies written on his tongue as he pressed it past her lips. He hadn’t meant to pull back. She moaned, her tongue eagerly dancing with his, and he pumped his hips against her. He moaned as the friction brought pleasure he had not felt in years.

“Cullen.” Her name tickled his ear as his kiss shifted down her neck.

It meant so much more than she realized. He felt it in his chest, in his breeches, stoking his passion. “Again.” She shivered as his lips brushed her neck, his voice husky.

“Cullen~” Her hands slid over his shoulders, under the vest. He lowered his arms to allow the vest to hang from his belt around him. He lowered her entirely onto the desk. “Cullen, wait.”

One word, and he shot up quickly. Had her legs not been locked around him, he would've backed away. “Maker, I'm sorry.” He panted, fighting his urges, hating himself. “I knew-” She sat up to place a finger on his lips. A soft, calloused finger. He quieted.

Her finger slid from his lips, her eyes fretful. “Are you sure this is what you want...? Are you sure-”

His eyebrows lifted. The fear had returned. “Liandra.” A command, one she immediately followed. He smirked down to her and pulled off his gloves. He needed to feel her again, to feel her flesh against his, to feel the sparks, the tingles.

In just his undershirt, he could feel her body under his, he could feel the mounds of her breasts pressing against his chest. He could feel the slither of her torso and hips as she pulled his body closer, as she ground against his pelvis. Any fears that he might have had fled with every stroke of friction against his manhood, every moan as his fingers traced her sensitive elven ears, every pain that subsided with her touch. He wondered absently if she did it intentionally, if her concern for him manifested in healing so that any contact repaired him in some way. Or if perhaps her specialization in healing magic had permeated her being so much that it had affected her touch. Whatever it was, he thanked the Maker for sending her to him.

“By the Creators, Cullen.” It was his name that threw him over the edge. Her whimpering moans, her pleas.

_She needed him_. “Maker forgive me for the man I become.”

His hands found the top of her button-down shirt and he pressed his lips to hers as his fingers tried desperately to unfasten them. The tremors returned, the lyrium quaking his fingers, preventing him the access he craved. His felt his lips slip as his concentration shifted to the buttons, to controlling the shivers. His past haunted him, his decisions, the man he had once been salted the scabs that she healed.

He would allow it no longer. He growled, threaded his fingers through the opening of her shirt, and threw his arms apart. The threads that held the buttons snapped. Buttons exploded all over his office. She squealed and giggled. Her eyes shone brightly up to him, the green gone, replaced with her beautiful hazel. He returned his hands to the desk, on either side of her hips. Her hands wrapped around his wrists.

He lifted his eyebrows. A silent question. Her lips curved, her shoulders lifted, but she nodded slightly. _She wasn’t afraid_. Permission. His eyes fell to her collar bone. The right side held a scar that stretched to over her breast. His tongue flashed over his lips. The varterral had marred more than her face. He lifted his left hand to trace the memory. Her body shuddered with her breath. His name drifted to his ears as a prayer from her lips.

Her skin felt soft under his calloused fingertips. His fingers traced the scar to her breast. She squirmed against his manhood. His hand fell, covering her breast in his large palm. He had never thought her lacking, but the size of his hand reminded him starkly of their difference in size. Liandra was an elf.

Her moan pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up to her eyes, still hazel. Her left hand slipped over his woolen shirt, over his shoulder, to his neck. The fires burned under her hand. He pulled himself down to press a gentle kiss to her lips. Her fingers stretched to his earlobe. His hand squeezed, teased her breast. He felt her nipple harden at his affections. He needed more of her.

His lips dragged over her cheek, over the raised skin of her tattoo, to her ear. She whimpered. He balked. Her fingers found his earlobe, massaging the sensitive flesh. He steered his lips down, away from her ear. She was too sensitive, perhaps. He would find out later.

Another soft moan escaped her as his lips pressed kisses into her collar bone. She smelled less like herbs and more like cream. The herbal scent must've been in her clothes, in the room when she cooked him dinner, cooked for herself, for her adventuring party. But here, under her clothes, was only her.

His hands slipped over her chest to her sides, reveling her soft skin. Warmth spread through his fingers when he touched her, his lips brushing their way down her chest. He dragged his fingers down her sides, startled at the mottled scars on her left side. He lifted his head to assess the damage. The scars curled around her side, accompanied by one on her right. Together, he recognized the pattern of a claw. She must’ve been face down, nearly crushed by that dragon.

“Cullen…?” He lifted his gaze at her prayer of his name. Her fingers threaded into his hair.

The desire demon cackled somewhere, but he didn't care. The demon had tempted him from his faith with something he should not have. But he was a Templar no longer. Liandra was no ordinary mage. Liandra was real. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her and she had him. By Andraste, did she have him.

His eyes closed as he suckled on her nipple, causing her to squirm and moan below him. He tried hard not to grin as she squirmed, her back arching her body into him, her fingers gripping his hair and relaxing and gripping again. His other hand slid up her side, followed the curvature up to her other breast. She whimpered out a small No, but he heard the ecstasy hidden below it. His hand cupped her breast, his large hand a reminder of their difference in size, and she moaned louder. He was thankful he had dismissed the guards for the night, thankful there would be no one close to hear them. He wanted to make her scream.

His hand toyed with the breast as she moaned louder, ever louder, begging him to stop, not this way. He looked up to her and continued to suckle, his fingers finding and teasing her nipple. She squealed out a moan, her head tossed side to side, and he reveled in it. She was lost in him, dominated by him, and loved every second of it. Her hands shifted to his shoulders, slipped over his back. Her fingers curled, pressed her fingertips into the shirt, but never her nails. His manhood twitched, his breeches tighter than they had ever been before, and he chuckled into her breast.

That rumble must've been her tipping point. Her hands clawed at his back, gripped his shirt tightly. Her hips bucked sharply, accompanied by a scream that cut off as she shuddered below him in pleasure. He froze, keeping a tight hold on both her nipples, afraid of what might happen to her if he continue. Her hands relaxed, one moving down to take his on her breast. He allowed her to guide it away, sucking her breast up as he moved away so that when he released it, it bounced back. She moaned and wriggled below him for that.

Her eyes were closed as she recovered, affording him the time to catalogue her scars. How many of these were from Haven? How many were from her other ventures into the field? How many could've been avoided? If he had just been there-

Her eyes opened slowly to him and shook her head. “Cullen. Thank you…” His eyes lifted to hers. Andraste, the way she said his name. “That wasn't fair. What about you? Is this really what you wanted?”

His eyes slid back down to her breasts, to the scars that peppered her skin. “No.” His voice sounded much like the Commander. “But I don't think we should linger here...” Her brow furrowed. “I don't have stairs, something I am beginning to regret.”

She smirked to him and sat up from the desk. “It might just be easier to change your living arrangements than try to build stairs in here.” She closed her shirt with the two buttons left at the top.

“Change my-” Was she suggesting what he thought she was suggesting?

Liandra slid off the desk and closed the distance to his ladder. She lingered, her hands on the rungs above her head. “Don’t forget the fur, Cullen.”

He glanced down to his fur-lined coat. His eyes met boots when he returned them to the ladder. He grabbed the coat and eagerly made his way to the ladder.

Climbing up the ladder was both easier and more difficult than it had been before. He was lighter, thanks to his missing armor pieces, but he also had a full view of her backside, round and soft, which required him to manage his excitement as he ascended. At the top, he heard her shoe hit the floor, then the other as he crested the floor into his quarters.

As he took the last few rungs to make it to his bedroom, she removed her breeches, dropping them on top of her shoes. His eyes followed the line of her smallclothes, the curve of her bottom to the side, tied in a knot at her side. He wanted to move, to close the distance, but he was transfixed on her long legs, the daintiness of her feet, the beautiful structure, the way she turned toward him as her hair fell from her braids. Gone was the fear, the apprehension she had held within her for months. Cullen swallowed hard, the need to take full advantage of her building, burning him.

“Maker...” The fires burned and he took a step forward. With the buttons popped off her shirt, it hung open, just enough to reveal the curve of her breasts, her belly button. Just enough to ignite his passions anew.

She held a hand out, stopping him, then pointed down. “It's only fair, Cullen.”

He looked down dumbly and nodded. Only fair. The fur-lined coat flew in the vague direction of his dresser. He didn't bother to sit, hopping to keep his balance as he loosened the laces of his boots and pulled them off. The wood that made up his floor was colder than he remembered, but he did not linger for very long. She beckoned him closer once the boots were gone, but he still had his belts. He struggled to remove the offending articles around his waist while she climbed onto the bed.

“Wait.” The word left her soft and uncertain. She wet her lips, drew in the bottom to nibble for a moment. She shifted back toward the bed. “I want…” This was new to her. She struggled to find the words.

He felt the smile tug at his lips. This was the woman he cared deeply about, the woman under the Inquisitor mask.  “The most powerful woman in all of Thedas, perhaps even the world, and you can’t just ask me?” A different fuel dropped into the fires. “Tell me? _Order_ me?”

Her face contorted into petulance, her arms crossed over her tantalizing chest. “Cullen!” He chuckled. “I’ve been struggling for months now to even _suggest_ -“

He moved closer, his fingers graced her jawline. His touch silenced her, her eyes rolling just as her eyelids closed. She moved with his hand like a cat enjoying the stroke of its master. “Liandra.” He watched the corner of her lips perk at her name. “You have nothing to fear from me.” Her tongue flashed over her lips. He closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his gently. Her hands, one glowing, pressed into his abdomen. He felt the moan flow through him as she slid her hands over his shirt, feeling the hills and valleys of his muscle tone. She took a step forward, moving her body closer to his. Her hands grasped handfuls of his shirt and tugged it up.

Cullen kept his belt tight to ensure that all his clothes never sagged, that cold air could not penetrate. That tightness of his belt, and the additional articles of clothes, made her action futile. She groaned slightly and pulled her lips away from his. He chuckled and slid his bare hands up her sleeves to her shoulders. Her fingers worked deftly, gently on his belt while his fingers toyed with her hair. The soft red waves he curled around his fingers to run his thumb over it. The belt loosened, his pants sagged abruptly, held up by his hips and his manhood alone. The vest he wore under his coat fell around his feet.

She dropped the right side of his belt and tossed it in the vague direction of his dresser. Cullen heard a soft thud as it fell into the fur of his coat. Her eyes did not lift to his again. His brow furrowed. Had she started to regret her actions?

Her fingers slid under the fabric of his shirt. He inhaled sharply as her fingers graced his skin. Sparks lit under the skin, lightning lanced out in every direction. Most notably the pleasure that shocked his manhood. His fingers closed on her hair as if it could keep him safe. As her fingers continued up, he heard the click of her tongue as her mouth opened. He heard her begin to breath deeper, a chuckle escaped her as his flesh met the chill of his bedroom.

“Cullen.” Her voice had dropped, a husky, appreciative tone.

“Yes, Liandra.” She had him.

Her fingers spread wide over the span of his chest, having reached the limit that his shirt would lift. “Lift your arms for me?”

He did as commanded and the shirt was removed. He chuckled at her wonder. But he saw her eyes moving over his flesh, taking in the scars. “Liandra.”

She bit her bottom lip and traced his collarbone. She purposely ignored the scar that stretched diagonally from it, tracing the outlines of his muscles. “Cullen.” His brow furrowed, his hands found her shoulders again. “Cullen, you are exquisite.”

He chuckled, felt the blush rise on his cheeks. “Liandra, you’ve seen me before. At traini-“

Her head shook. “No, Cullen.” She lifted her eyes to his finally. “I watched the Commander train with his troops.” She smiled up to him. “This…” She pulled her bottom lip in for a moment.

_This is different_. He understood. This was intimate. The Inquisitor and the Commander did not exist here. Her fingers spread over his chest again and she pressed a kiss between them. Her lips cooled him, a soothing flame. Her kiss moved lower, tracing a lazy line down to his belly button. The proximity to his breeches tore all thought from him. His urges could be denied no longer.

His fingers threaded into her hair. “Liandra…” His hands slipped through her hair, brushed her ears. Moans moved through his lips as he kissed her.

His hands found her hips again. She felt different in just her smallclothes. He lifted her at the hips and held her body against his. She squealed girlishly and looped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. He realized just how much taller he was, how much stronger. Her legs wrapped around his waist provided enough support to slide his hand up the back of her shirt. A smile radiated from her, consumed by his lips in another kiss.

He lifted a leg under her backside to press a knee onto his bed. His torso angled to drop her onto the bed, her head by the pillows, her body nearer to the center. He followed after her, his body covered hers completely.

Her hands cupped his cheeks, pulling him into deeper kisses. He positioned himself between her legs. Her hips pulled her against him, rubbing the fabric of his smallclothes against his manhood. He growled, moaned into the kiss, fighting the need to take her. His hips ground against hers, a compromise.

Her hands slipped under his arms, over his back, her short nails digging into the small of his back. Flames filled him, her need fueling his. “Liandra.” She cooed against his lips. “Liandra, I… Are you sure?”

She chuckled under him. “Cullen, this may be my first but-“

He lifted his head, rested back on his heels. “Your first?” It hadn’t occurred to him before. She was so beautiful.

Her eyes fell away, her hands pulling her shirt closed over her. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Cullen shook his head. He gently removed her arms from the shirt and opened it again. “Liandra, it may surprise you to learn this.” He pressed a kiss to her collar bone. “But this will be my first as well.”

He watched her lick her lips, savoring the feel of his against her skin. “It does surprise me. You seem so… confident.”

He pressed his lips together. He sat back on his heels again. “I have the perfect partner.”

He took her hands again and guided her into a sitting position. The shirt slipped from her shoulders and she took over sliding it off her arms. Cullen took the moment to slip his thumbs under the waist of his breeches and smallclothes to remove both. He released a breath when his manhood sprung into the cool night air. Liandra’s eyes widened, glancing between his eyes and his nether region.

The confidence she lauded him for faded immediately. Her ears sagged slightly when she finally settled her gaze on his manhood. He tossed his clothes to the side. “Something the matter…?”

One hand rested against the bed. He shifted slightly, watching her other hand stretch toward him. He moaned loudly when her fingers graced him, the sparks, the fires, the need. He felt his nails dig into his palms. “Liandra…?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I’ve… never seen it before.” Her fingers left him. “Apologies, ma vhenan.”

His brow furrowed, his fingers relaxed. “’Ma vhenan’?” His fingers hooked under her smallclothes and she lifted her hips.

“It… means ‘my heart’.” The smallclothes left her ankles and the article tossed to the side.

A warmth spread through him, different than anything he had felt before. He smiled down to her. “Is that your way of saying you love me, Liandra?”

Her fingers crawled over his shoulders, pulled him back down to her. Her body wriggled into position underneath him. Her eyes remained steadfastly linked to his lips. “What if it is?”

What if it was? He had loved her for months now. Had she felt the same? “Say it for me.” _Make it real_.

Her eyes drifted up to his, fell again. She hesitated. One of her hands moved to his shoulder, the other to brush her thumb over his lips. The sparks reached his tongue. “I… I love you, Cullen.”

Love. She had said it. He crawled up the bed, his body quivering from the word, from the realization. “You said it.”

Her brow furrowed, but he missed it. His lips pressed to hers again, his tongue seeking the sparks that jumped from hers. He greeted her slit with his manhood, the opening slick from her arousal. He lowered a hand between them, aligning himself as he kissed her. She moaned at the contact, whimpered as he lingered.

And then he entered her. She yelled, one of pleasure, and he met no resistance. The tales he heard from other Templars, from other men were wrong. His mind went white as she squirmed under him, a growl of lust replacing his moans. This was what he had been missing, this perfection. This is what you gave up with vows. He wanted to, needed to move, to feel the friction around his cock.

Her panting breaths had not calmed. He opened his eyes and took in her furrowed brow, her strained features. “Did I hurt you?” His voice was low, borderline Commander.

She shook her head. “Don't stop, emma lath.”

He chuckled. “More Elvish?”

Her hips wriggled, pulling another pleasured grunt from him. “It means ‘my love’.”

_Love_. She said it again. His chest filled, his manhood throbbed inside her. He needed more of her. To feel more, to taste more, to feel her from the inside. His lips found hers as he pulled his hips back.

His pleasure could not be contained to a kiss. His lips fell from hers, his moans falling to the curve of her neck. The ecstasy burned through his veins, the sparks of her fingers slid over his back. The darkness behind his eyes filled with radiance at his thrust forward, into her, wrapped in her warmth and perfection.

At her insistence, he pulled his hips back, moaning into her neck, the pleasure burning through his veins. She moaned into his ear, her hands shakily finding their way around his broad shoulders. His body did not stop, falling victim to the need, the desire.

She was his Inquisitor, she was his absolution, she was his. She belonged to him. With every thrust, the pleasure scorched him, the Maker's light blinded him. Her voice whispered his name breathlessly into his ear, sending tingles down his spine. He couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to.

“Liandra.” The name was whispered into her ear, something to ground him. One hand propped him up, the other moving to trace her ear as he collected a portion of skin on her neck and started to suck. She moaned loudly, twitching around his cock, squeezing him tighter. He would mark her as the Maker marked her. He would mark her as the Dalish, as the Fade, as Corypheus. And he would erase them. She belonged to him. To no one else.

As he suckled on her skin, as she moaned, he felt the pleasure rising to a level that he could no longer endure. The suckling of her neck, the mark he strove to create fell out of his lips as the moans he kept inside could no longer be contained. Her name fell from his lips as he moved, as he neared his completion, as he heard her near hers. He couldn't contain, he didn't want to. He had to fill her, to mark her.

“Cullen~!”

His name, screamed through her climax, broke the dam. His breath caught in his throat, his forehead moving to rest on hers, a kiss, a promise, as he felt himself empty into her. Her nails clawed at his shoulderblades, her body twitched and tightened around him, squeezing out every last drop he had to offer. She whispered his name, panted against his lips, tilted her face in hopes of coaxing just one more kiss out of him.

The Maker's light left his eyes, replaced with the stark green and yellow of her eyes. He watched her face, glistening with the sweat of their exertions, eyes searching his. “Cullen...” His eyes rolled back when she whispered her name. “Emma lath...” He nuzzled his forehead against hers.

It took a few moments for his manhood to calm. He pulled it out slowly and she squeaked as their liquids pooled under her. He chuckled and she giggled. Her leg moved, providing him room to collapse. He rolled onto his back beside her, panting heavily. She immediately took his arm, stretched it out and curled up against his side. His arm closed around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

Snow began to fall through the broken area of his roof and she muttered an Elven curse. She wriggled around, pulling the sheet they were laying on from under him to provide some protection from the cold. Cullen let his eyes close.

“Cullen?” He grunted. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “I should be thanking you, Liandra.” She kissed the side of his chest.

“Me?” She lifted her head to him. Her eyes had begun to glow gently. “Whatever for?”

He smirked and pulled her into another kiss. “For saving me. For forcing me to act. For having the courage to tell me.” He tucked a bit of hair behind the length of her ear. She moaned absently, still sensitive from their affections. “I never would’ve… We never-“ He sighed and rested back against the pillow. “Thank you, Liandra.”


	23. Morning After

_“Cullen, I know how much you care for me. I'm here, waiting for you. All I ask is that you take me. I want you to.”_

He frowned at the Fadescape. “I know what you're doing, demon. I will not falter. I am a Templar, I have been trained to fight you.” The Warden's face frowned. “Leave me.” She moved closer, stretching a hand toward him. “No! Leave me, demon.”

Liandra’s brow furrowed at the stew bubbling over the campfire. She glanced around the fire to the places typically occupied by her dream companions. Old and new friends, spirits and demons, all were gone. Just beyond her small gathering, the mottled land and pools of water returned. Liandra sighed heavily. What had once been the Free Marches, the mountains surrounding Haven, or Skyhold had been warped forever to a nightmarish dreamscape similar to the Fear Demon’s domain. The Black City drifted in the distance of her dreams of dinner with her companions or the Keeper, a haunting familiarity.

The landscape of the Fade drifted further away as Liandra returned to the waking world. Shivering under her cheek brought her to consciousness. Cullen’s fevered whispers through gritted teeth opened her eyes. Just as she lifted her head, Cullen woke with a start. His torso lifted into a sitting position before she had time to register he had moved at all. His right arm flailed a few times at an unseen attacker.

Liandra lifted herself off the bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had seen him have these nightmares before. She placed a hand on his upper arm. His eyes jolted to her hand, to her face. His breathing remained unsteady, his eyes fearful.

“Cullen…?” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, still froggy from the sleep. He needed to be reminded of where he was, who he was with. He had to be pulled from it somehow. “Cullen, you’re safe. You’re in Skyhold. With me.”

His name pulled him from the nightmare, returned his eyes to her full of recognition and appreciation. His right hand cupped her cheek. She would never tire of the warmth he gave her. She nuzzled into his hand, turning her head carefully to kiss his palm. He nodded slightly and fell back against the pillows.

She had hoped, rather foolishly, that the dreams would disappear after last night. A girlish fantasy of love fixing all ills. “Bad dreams again?”

He nodded and brought one arm up to his forehead. “I fear I will never be truly rid of them. They had gotten better. Ever since your attempt at treatment, they’ve gotten worse.”

She felt her jaw clench. She had failed. This was a mistake. He didn’t deserve her. His hand found her shoulder, summoning the cold fingers around her heart. She turned her head away from him as he sat up beside her.

“Maker, forgive me, Liandra.” His fingers slid over her back to the opposite shoulder. “I know you meant well.” His chuckle tickled her ear. Her body shivered, goose pimples flared out from her right ear. “And now I know why.”

She turned her head in his direction. “Cullen, I’m sorry… Had I known-“

He hushed her and pressed a kiss to her earlobe. She moaned slightly, shifted on the bed. “There is so little known about lyrium and the Templars’ addiction to it. As I said, you meant well.” He kissed her neck, near the mark he had suckled into it the night prior.

Her eyes closed, her head tilted away from him to allow him easier access. The fingers around her heart dug in. “I should’ve respected your wishes. You’ve made your feelings about lyrium very clear. You came-“ His tongue flashed over her skin. Her nipples hardened. “-to me seeking ah-asylum.” Her right hand lifted to his cheek. “Cullen, we should stop this.”

She felt his brow furrow against her jaw. “Judging by the time, Liandra, we’ve plenty of morning left.”

One of his hands slipped to her thigh under the sheets. A moan escaped her as her tongue moved over her lips. The sun had risen some time ago. They didn’t have time for another tryst, but he desired her. He wanted her. To fulfill his carnal pleasures.

 _Does he want you for anything else_? Her brow furrowed. Frost flowed through her torso from her heart.

She had failed him so many times. Not just him, she had failed so many. She was just one Dalish, an isolationist tribe cut off even from other Dalish. No, she wasn’t even that. Liandra No-Longer-Lavellan, a self-imposed clanless. Not good enough to become the next Keeper, not even good enough to become a trainer of the magelings. Liandra had never been good enough. Not for her parents, not for the clan, not for the Keeper. It was only a matter of time before the Keeper disavowed her. Without the Inquisition, she would be no better than Solas, another clanless Dalish apostate.

There was nothing special about her. Liandra Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste. A title she earned through the sacrifice of the Divine, a woman far greater than herself. A title she didn’t understand, that spread no matter how hard she tried to deny it.

How many others had died because of her? The body count at Therinfal held more than just the corrupted Templars. Sera would call them Little People. Pure Templars had to murder their friends or fall to them. And Ser Barris. Ser Delrin Barris had been willing to risk his career, his _life_ to serve the Inquisition, to serve the creed of the Order as he saw it. And he paid the price for it. Because of Liandra’s poor decisions.

Poor decisions that cost the mages their lives as well. Many still served under the Venatori out of fear, though Rion and Ser Belinda had been able to turn a few of the rebel mages over to the Inquisition. But had she been faster, had Liandra not been paralyzed with indecision, left wandering the snowy landscape outside Haven, would she have been able to prevent it? How many bodies had been buried under Haven thanks to Liandra’s failures?

And despite all of that, they had all pushed her to take up the position of Inquisitor. Despite all her failings, she had been given control of the largest and strongest force in Thedas. Perhaps even the world.

Her head shook. Frost spread through her limbs. This was ridiculous. Commander Cullen Rutherford deserved better. “You deserve more than me.”

Cullen chuckled against her neck. “As if there were someone better.”

His touch scorched her. She growled in pain and pulled away. His hand left an imprint on her thigh. She stood from the bed. Her clothes lay scattered about the floor. She moved to begin gathering them.

“Liandra?” Pain lined his voice. She swallowed hard. She heard cloth rustling behind her. “Liandra, something is wrong.” A statement of fact, not a question out of concern.

She chuckled sardonically and slipped her hands through the sleeves of her shirt. “I’ve always appreciated your skill in understatements, Commander.” She shook her head at the missing buttons.

His hands found her shoulders. Fires burned her again and she pulled away. His eyes narrowed at her. “What is this really about?”

 _You know what this is about. He never said it. Never told you he loved you. And why should he?_

Liandra turned around. Before her hovered a Despair demon. She stood in a replica of Cullen’s loft, frosted over and filled with snow. The walls were missing, revealing bits and pieces of the Free Marches in which she grew up to her left, a few buildings of Haven to the right, Therinfal Redoubt loomed high on a mountain.

She had rarely allowed herself to get this close to a demon. She had confronted demons at Rifts, at the Breach, even in the Fear demon’s domain. But never this.

Her body began to shiver, standing naked in the frozen version of the loft. She felt Cullen’s presence behind her, in the real world, holding her, his voice soothing. Could the demon hear him?

“He hasn’t said he loved me, in so many words, but I know he does.” She had to be strong.

_How do you know? He is a Templar, how could he ever love a mage?_

Wills. Demons that sought to overtake a mage, to turn them into abominations, they functioned on willpower. She had to overpower it, to prove that she had the stronger will. But how could it have even targeted her if she were not weak?

She shook her head. Her arms crossed under her breasts in an effort to warm herself. “He’s no longer a Templar. He is the Commander of the Inquisition.”

_Commander of the Inquisition? Isn’t it inappropriate to be in a relationship with you, the Inquisitor?_

Inappropriate. His reason flowed from all around her. Goosepimples rose over her skin, the first shiver reaching her ears. “But he did. He… Last night, we-“

The demon chuckled. It filled the Fadescape, hissing from all directions. _A physical relationship. You are so **beautiful**._

She shivered again. He had told her that before. She had started to notice his fleeting glances, the furtive looks that shifted away when she looked to him. He had admired her for months. She exhaled, her breath solid in the air before her.

_For an elf._

Her nails dug into her flesh. _Shemlen_. The Keeper’s voice hissed at the edge of her consciousness. Liandra set her jaw.

“Liandra.” Cullen’s voice cut through. “Liandra, please, speak to me.”

She felt his fear, his concern. She felt his hands warming her upper arms, as they had after Haven, as they had on particularly cold days in Skyhold. He always found a way to touch her with his leather gloves, a way to comfort her, to show he cared. He didn’t say it, but Liandra knew.

She had let the demon in. At the ball, perhaps. She had been weak, she knew. Cullen had kept it at bay, but it lingered, weakening her until it could take over. Her eyes narrowed. Despair crept through in the quiet times, fed on her insecurities and fears.

The demon’s hood lifted slightly, red eyes glowed brightly in the black pit where its face should be. His body pressed against hers, and warmth spread through the frozen loft.

“You have no power here, demon. No longer.”

The demon’s hood shook. _How could he love someone that has failed him so many times?_

Liandra chuckled. She had asked herself that many times before the demon forced it on her. “Because I tried, demon. Because it isn’t about my failure, it’s about my heart. And he loves me for it.”

 _He’s never said it._ The demon’s desperation flowed over her.

Liandra closed her eyes to concentrate on her physical body. Her arms lifted to allow Cullen to wrap his around her waist. She rested her hands on his arms. “He doesn’t have to. Because I know where his heart lies.”

A growl filled the frozen Fadescape. Liandra lifted her chin. The shoulders of the despair demon’s robe lifted. Therinfal dissipated in a cloud of snow. _He never told you_.

Liandra chuckled. “He told me in so many ways you wouldn’t understand.” Haven’s buildings exploded into a cloud of snow with a pleasant poof. Liandra smiled. “And he told me last night.” The Free Marches crumpled into piles of snow.

The demon shrieked. Liandra winced. _Don’t send me back!_

She thrust her left hand forward. She felt Cullen jolt behind her. Liandra tugged at the seams of the Fadescape, pulling them tighter and tighter. The pocket the despair demon tailored for her shrunk. The demon screamed, cried, shrieked. She watched its shoulders lifted again, the front of its robe inflate, she tugged sharply. The beam of frost disappeared behind the Veil.

Liandra stumbled back into Cullen. He held her tightly, his face burrowed into her right shoulder. Liandra swallowed sharply and took a deep breath. The walls of Cullen’s loft had returned, the morning sun streaming through the broken roof. His hair tickled her earlobe between her earrings. She felt warmth returning to her limbs.

As the warmth returned to her right shoulder, she felt the moisture. Moisture? She carefully lifted her right hand to press against Cullen’s mop of curly hair. “Cullen.”

His head lifted with a sniff. “Liandra! Thank the Maker. Are you all right?” Barely veiled worry colored his words. He wanted to believe in her, but he wanted to protect her.

She turned carefully in his arms. Her forehead rested against his chest. “Cullen, I’m sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. A smile graced her lips. “It would appear I was weaker than I thought.”

His hands spread over her back under the shirt. “You? Never.”

Liandra chuckled. Such faith. “A despair demon-“

“I know.”

Her brow furrowed. “You know?” She lifted her head to him.

He nodded. “They are insidious. Mages that fall to them are never found until it is too late. But each demon’s presence is unique. I felt it when you began to gather your clothes.”

He felt it. The lyrium had changed him permanently, or was this Templar training? She thanked the Creators for sending him. “It’s a good thing you did. That you stayed with me.” She took a breath, her ears sagged. “I’m sorry. I ruined your morn-“

Cullen silenced her with a kiss. Liandra felt the purr in her throat and slid her hands around his neck. His hands found her waist to pull her body flush against his.

He broke the kiss, but kept her body close. “If waking to you naked in my bed is considered ruining my morning, then I daresay I much prefer to have them ruined.”

Liandra felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “I… believe I would like that as well.” His eyebrows lifted. “Without the attempt at demonic possession.” Cullen’s arms tightened around her. Liandra felt the fear in his aura, the worry in the press of his fingertips into the back of her neck. _He cared_. And she had to repay that kindness. “I fear I will have to spend some time… strengthening my defenses.”

“Of course…” His lips pressed to the top of her head. “How much time will you require?”

She nuzzled into his bare chest. “The process shouldn’t take more than a day-“

He groaned, his knees bent as he leaned back. “A day? How am I to survive without you!”

Liandra’s brow furrowed with her chuckle. Cullen’s boyish moments filled her with such joy. “What is this now? You’ve survived fairly well without me until today.”

He leaned down to scoop her up in his arms. She squealed and clung to his neck. “And what a half-life I’ve lived without you, my love.” He pressed a knee onto the bed and placed her down gently.

Liandra stiffened. The frost in her chest melted through her veins. “Love…?” The word escaped her in a breathy whisper.

He fought with the sheets to pull them around himself as he climbed into the bed on top of her. “Hm?”

She lifted a hand to his jawline. The stubble tickled her skin, long enough in the morning to be soft rather than prickly. He smiled softly down to her. Her eyes lifted to his golden hazel, warm amber reflected the soft green glow of her own.

“You love me?” The question had lingered in her chest as he snoozed. She had cuddled against him in the dark, glanced around the broken rooftop, her mind adrift in a sea of worry. It was the singular question the despair demon had latched onto, forced her to go over every second of their interactions the day prior, searching for his explicit reciprocation of her feelings.

He smirked down to her. “Yes, Liandra.” His eyebrows lifted. “Is that what…?”

Her eyes closed. They both knew the answer. But it wasn’t his fault. She would not reinforce his self-flagellation. She returned her arms around his neck, feeling her way up his arms, over his shoulders. “Tell me, ma sa’lath?” But she needed to hear it.

He hovered above her, his eyes searching her face, reading her scar, following the swirls of her vallaslin. A look she had seen him grace her with a few times before. He shifted his weight to one hand, the other lifting to brush a bit of hair from her forehead. “I love you, Liandra.”

Liandra felt the grin tighten her cheeks. The words fell heavy with the weight of his conviction to his sentiment. Her eyes opened to him. “You really do, don’t you.”

His hand returned to spread his weight across all four limbs. “I do. I’m sorry I didn’t… I suppose I just assumed you knew.”

Liandra chuckled to herself. “I did know, somewhere. But you had to make it real, ma sa’lath. You had your doubts as well, did you not?”

His eyebrows lifted. A bit of his hair and fallen over his forehead. She had never seen his hair without the product to keep it straight. “I have never doubted you, Liandra.”

She smirked. “Were you not the one that asked me to say it last night?” His lips parted to object, she shook her head and pulled him closer. “You knew somewhere that I love you, and yet you requested I say the words to make it real.” Her nose brushed against his. “We’re even now.”

Cullen chuckled. “Yes, mistress.”

The distance between them closed, his body rested against hers as he pressed a kiss to her lips. She lifted her knees around his hips, fighting the urge to smile against his kiss when she felt his manhood stir against her.

“Commander…?” Her fingers slid over the back of his neck, threading into his hair. He hummed and moved his kiss over to her jawline. His devotion knew no bounds. “Is this what you had in mind for the rest of the morning?”

His tongue flashed over her neck again, a kiss quick behind it. No words voiced through his lips, only pressed into her flesh through his kisses.

“Cullen.” Her head lifted off the pillow, his name a moan from deep within her. “Cullen, I have to-“ She fell back as his lips found their way to her breasts. “-meditate.”

“I guess the Commander isn't awake yet.”

“That's not like him, to sleep in.”

“He's probably already awake, training in the yard or something. Did you hear what happened with him and the Inquisitor yesterday?”

Liandra inhaled sharply at the voices from below. Had they been there long? Could they hear her? Her eyes opened wide, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Cullen glanced up to her at her gasp. Liandra’s eyebrows knit, terror filling her chest. Should the Inquisition know about their relationship?

Cullen’s scar shifted slightly with his smirk. Liandra could feel the desire demons shift beyond the Veil. His head lowered, his tongue pressed against her nipple before he wrapped his lips around the sensitive nub.

A moan escaped her, a quiet appreciation, pleasure sent fire through her body. His tongue, his lips, his affections would not be stopped, not be interrupted. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down, struggling to keep her noises to a minimum.

“Didja hear that? Do you think he’s getting up?”

“Nnno, that sounded like a wo-… Like a woman?”

“No! The Commander never seemed that interested in women! There’ve been plenty that’ve thrown themselves at him.”

“Men too, but he’s very adamant about his lack of interest.”

“So you think he finally just accepted a girl?”

“Nah, Commander isn’t that frivolous. Besides, with the way he’s been looking after the Inquisitor?”

His hand found her opposite breast, squeezing the soft mound in his large, calloused hand. Liandra moaned, her body arched against him.

“C’mon, Bran, we should get outta here.”

“But Sister Leliana and Lady Cassan-“

“Can bloody well wait until the Commander gets up. You heard about what he did to Lochley? The one that interrupted him and the Inquisitor yesterday?”

“Maker, what have I missed?”

“Let’s go get a pint and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Liandra’s ears twitched, listening for the doors below to creak shut. Cullen suckled hard on her nipple just as the door’s slam echoed through the loft. Her eyes closed, her hips wriggled against him. Her heart slowed, calmed with the threat of capture gone from below.

If the troops were looking for her, if Leliana and Cassandra and Creators know who else, then they had no more time. “Cullen…”

He lifted his eyes to her without releasing her breast. He pinched the other for good measure. She nibbled her bottom lip. “Cullen, we have… work… to do.”

He nodded gently and released her breast. His arm bent at the elbow to brush her nipple clean. “As much as I would love to remain here for perhaps the next few weeks, I suppose duty calls.” He tapped her leg and she lowered it without hesitation. He rolled to flop onto the bed beside her.

She chuckled and rolled against his side. “Weeks, ma sa’lath? Seems a bit excessive.”

His arm curled around her shoulders, the same position as last night. “Hardly. Weeks is where I would start. Far too much time has been wasted without you at my side.” A small laugh escaped him, a sad smile curved his scar. “To think, this is the feeling I have been missing all this time.”

Liandra furrowed her brow. “Feeling…?”

Cullen turned his head to her, his hair curlier by the minute. “You…” He rolled the rest of his body toward her and pressed his forehead against hers. “I have never felt anything like this.”

A silence passed between them, an understanding of the significance of his confession. Liandra closed her eyes, lifted her hand to cup his cheek. “ _Ne sulahn’nehn_ , _ma sa’lath_.”

She felt his brow furrow against her forehead. “I fear I have not kept up on my Dalish.”

“You are my joy, my one love.” His phrasing moved through her thoughts again. “Have you been studying?”

He pulled his head back to nod gently. “A bit. I’ve only ever had to know the Common Tongue. I never realized how difficult it is to know more than one.”

His absence of his warmth allowed the mountain chill into her skin. She smiled slowly. “You were learning for me, I presume?”

His hand moved to her hip. “You seem surprised.”

She really shouldn’t be. She had stumbled upon his books a few months ago. “No, not surprised.” His fingers grazed over her skin, under the shirt left permanently open, buttons still missing. Which left her with little options. “I fear we may have to take advantage of your desire to shirk our duties.”

His brow furrowed. “I… wasn’t totally serious, love. Thedas still needs-”

Liandra giggled and moved to take his hand. She had to stop the tickling. “No, no. I… My clothes are in a state of… disrepair. I’m not sure I would get very far before someone took notice.”

His cheeks flushed. “Maker’s breath.”

She smiled softly and moved her hand to thread their fingers together. “No worries, ma sa’lath. Clothes can easily be replaced.”

His thumb rubbed absently against hers. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course. I have plenty of other clothes in my quarters.”

“Not that, Liandra.” His voice adopted a serious tone.

She shifted nervously. The attack, the vulnerability, the whole endeavor had been harrowing. The stories and rumors about demon attacks spread, but they never happened to her. And they never would, or so she thought. She was stronger, smarter, better than that. She… Was she no longer that strong? Or had she just become strong in a different way?

These were questions she would have to answer during her meditation. “I will be.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He turned their hands to kiss the back of hers.

The impression of his kiss lingered on her skin. Sincerity filled her, affection for this man so devoted in all things, especially to her. He studied about her people, about her clan, about her language. He knew so much about mages and demons and spirits already. He longed only to help and heal her. She shook her head. “Perhaps I should remain here, if that is all right with you?”


	24. Shades of Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent a long time away from this because I was letting it get way out of hand based on suggestions from a reader. I wanted to go back and rewrite the last few chapters, but I realized maybe I should just commit to what I have. Because the hesitation, the desire to rewrite, was preventing me from continuing.
> 
> So here is the next chapter, for better or worse.

Throbs pounded against the inside of his skin with every beat of his heart. His hearing had become so sensitive he could hear the blood flowing through his body, every pump and every rush murder behind his eyes, under his temples, at the back of his skull. The windows had been covered, the doors closed. Even the air seemed thicker, every breath an arduous task. A miasma had sunk into his office, thick enough to cut with his sword. But the meetings continued. Many of the letters sent out in preparation for the previous already had responses, accompanied by messengers demanding attention. Their voices thundered through his ears, banged around inside his head. Nausea threatened upheaval of his breakfast, a hearty celebration after the events of the prior evening. Something to shroud the demonic events of the morning.

The headaches had gotten worse since the Inquisitor- Liandra had attempted to alleviate his symptoms with her treatment. Heal the dying lyrium inside him, but it had to die all over again. A truth he dare not share with her, especially not after this morning. Fear enveloped him at the thought; how many more things would he be terrified to tell her for fear that she might be attacked? How many arguments would he let her win for fear she might become a Rage demon? Or a Despair demon? His newfound sensitivity would warn him of approaching demons, of the threat of his love, his Inquisitor turning into an abomination.

He had agreed, largely due to her lack of proper clothing, to allow her to use his loft to meditate. But the treatment she had provided him left him keenly aware of the Veil and those beyond it. Perhaps an unintentional pouring of herself into her magic, or perhaps the Anchor had corrupted it in some way. She had wished to heal him, but bits of the Anchor flowed through every spell she channeled. Whatever magic had taken occupancy in her hand had trickled into him at some point.

Pain flared as the door across from his desk opened, bathing him in bright sunlight. Even with his eyes closed, the light blinded him. The pounding of his headache split the back of his skill, pressure built behind his nose, giving the sensation that he had broken it.

“Commander, Sister Leliana believes she has found evidence of-“

The leather of his glove creaked. Everything went white as he slammed his fist against his desk. He heard the gentle shuffle of papers, rustle of clothing, and the scuffs of boots against the wooden floor. “I will grant you one warning, Lochley, as you have just arrived. I have a tremendous headache and a sour mood. Please keep your voice down.”

The door opened again, this time from his left. He set his jaw and shook his head. “Maker’s breath, what is it now?”

“I never thought you the one to have a hangover, Knight-Commander. Always a good Chantry boy. I would’ve invited you had I known you had it in ya.” A familiar Starkhaven brogue punctuated against his skull.

“I’m not-“ Cullen’s brow furrowed over closed eyes, his reflexive protest died on his lips. “Rylen?”

“Aye, the very same!” Cullen winced at the man’s excitement. “What got you celebratory last night? Were you that excited to hear of my arrival?”

Cullen opened his eyes slowly, carefully, to his second’s voice. The man’s tattoos almost blended with the new shade of his skin, but his bright blue eyes smiled at him through the gloom. “Honestly, Rylen, I wasn’t told you would be arriving today.”

Rylen cocked a brow. “You sent for me to return immediately. I came as _immediately_ as the ass end of Thedas would allow. Or have you forgotten that it takes near a month to make the trip to Griffon Wing?”

Leather rubbed against his forehead. A month ago. When Liandra had been on her trip to Orlais and the symptoms had gotten worse. Several of his soldiers had taken notice, and Varric started to show up with increasing frequency. One of the letters he must’ve written in a drunken stupor before Liandra had shown up, a breath of fresh air in the warm apartment she occupied alone. His talk with Varric about old friends, about his childhood, about Kirkwall, then she showed up, a reminder that it had all been worthwhile. His struggles, all the terrible things in his past, they had led him to the Inquisition, to her. But with the worsening of his symptoms, he would not be capable of serving the Inquisition to the best of his ability. As such, when Varric and Liandra had stolen away to the balcony, his quill flourished over parchment.

“Of course, Rylen. Apologies. Things have been… rather exhausting.” Spurred by his confession, the miasma that flowed from the loft pressed down. The air became harder to breathe, forcing a coughing fit.

The messengers in the room gasped as their Commander bolted for the bucket tucked away in one corner of the room and deposited a portion of his breakfast. Cullen sagged to his knees, barely supporting himself on the edges of the bucket. He heard murmurs over the pounding of his skull, flinched at the light that danced across the backs of his eyelids.

Shadows danced over the walls outside the magical barrier the demon constructed for him. He could never be certain which shadow would pop out next, which version of _her_ would come. Which one would penetrate the barrier, run her fingers along his jaw and compliment how chiseled it was, run her fingers over the flaming sword on his breastplate and admire his devotion. How I’ve always _loved_ that about you, my dear sweet Cullen. The claws that would tickle behind his ears, tendrils that would sink into his flesh and search for what would break him.

“Cullen?” Their voices. The Inquisitor’s mixed with the Warden. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Cullen, you’re not well.”

He felt the tears slide over his cheeks, swallowing the excess spittle. “Please don’t take her.”

A hand met his shoulder, heavier than hers, smelling of livestock. “Cullen?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Rylen?”

The Knight-Captain crouched beside him, tilted his head forward. “Take who, lad?”

Cullen blinked at the bucket. He lifted his head and sat back on his heels. Another episode in front of his men. He leaned his head back and sniffed. “Sorry… As I said, things here have been trying.”

Rylen’s brow furrowed. He leaned in closer, his voice an angry murmur. “Don’t bullshit me, Cullen. You and I both have seen lyrium withdrawal firsthand. You thought you could hide it from me?”

Cullen blinked up to the boards that functioned as the second floor. She could be up there becoming an abomination. And if she did, he would have to be the one to cut her down. Tears stung his eyes again, the pressure in his nose building. Could he? Would he?

“Is that what you requested me for, Cullen?”

His eyes closed, more tears slipped from his eyes, into his hair this time. He righted his head, wiping his gloves over the tear streaks. “Yes, Rylen.” He made to stand, his body still weak. Rylen offered a hand. “I had hoped to… offer you my position as Commander.”

\---

He wanted to believe he had hope the cool mountain air would improve his headache, his burning shakes, but he had long since run out of hope. His eyes scanned the mountain ranges surrounding Skyhold instead. Perhaps if he occupied his mind with other things, the pain would fade. Why he ever thought that when working had done little to quell his symptoms he had no idea.

Hope. It had escaped him in Kinloch, just a bit more every day. Gone entirely by the time he made it to Kirkwall. Especially after the uprising. His absence of hope, the cynicism permeated his being, reaffirmed his decision to leave the Order. But the Inquisition had sparked it back to life. A small flame of hope that burned under his skull behind his eyes.

Or perhaps it had just been her. The Inquisitor. A Dalish Mage led the charge, made the decisions to see the world recovered, to see the war ended. She ignored color, religion, race, and did only what she thought to be Right. Her presence stoked his hope, warmed his heart.

But this morning? His heart froze. He felt the presence on her, lingering just outside the Veil perhaps. His hope died when he watched her body stiffen, reject his touch. He wanted to attribute it to her shame at lying with a Templar, a shemlen, someone older than her, anything but what happened. But he knew.

He thought her above it all. Free from the burdens of normal mages, the ones he witnessed corrupted in the towers. He held her on such a high pedestal. His vision of her shattered when her eyes turned black.

 _Ser Cullen, I can’t see_.

His eyes squeezed shut. All mages were the same, all potential victims to demons and spirits. Even the Inquisitor. Even the children. And who had to be there to put them down? Who skewered them as beasts, abominations, only to watch them return to consciousness moments before they died? Who would have to watch her eyes fade back to green, to hazel, and unfocus as her spirit passed beyond the Veil?

His eyes opened to the mountains again. He scanned the jagged line of the range. Could he explain this one away? Could he justify it, allow it to fester at the base of his fears? Or would he have to end it with her?

Could he end it with her? The scars flared at first, a reminder of why he dare not desire anyone. But she had pressed against the limitations of his endurance, tested him until he forgot, until he dared.

**Rutherford! End it!**

A scream echoed off the Harrowing Chamber. Another Templar attacked by the abomination the mage had become. The demon had won the trial. Only Cullen remained to save them. But his face, the young mage’s face, resembled ground meat, the jaw offset and obviously broken. The eyes remained, windows to the truth – a terrified young man faded with another roar. The demon had no idea how to control a host from the Fade.

A blast of cold mountain wind pulled him from the memory, but the scars burned the headache against his skull. He felt the nausea, panicked at the contractions in his throat. A hiccup greeted him, a welcome change from all the vomiting and retching of the morning. He released the extra air out of his gut slowly, carefully, fearing the inevitable violent spasms of another vomiting fit.

They had names. He remembered them all. He had gotten to know them. Jowan, Siliandra, Henry, Mervyn, Mira, Vincenzo, Fionela, Celeste. The list could go on. Those were just the adults. His fingers drew into fists, pressed his burning fingertips against the inside of his gloves.

The area behind his ears seared with pain. He flexed his hands. His gut roiled. The list of children, faces, names, that could go on much longer. Those made Tranquil in Kinloch or Kirkwall. He remembered them. He memorized them. Someone had to remember them. Those vile, unholy beasts. Innocent babes torn from this realm, passed through the Fade to the afterlife. Were they so innocent? They were tainted with magic, marked by the Maker, touched by the Fade to use abilities beyond mortals. They had to have done something, surely.

A sharp pain pressed against the back of his forehead. He felt his brow furrow hard, his left hand pressed into the spot. Rub it gently, the pain might fade.

The scent of leather faded, drowned out by the scent of burning flesh, hair, and fabric. He closed his eyes tightly. Not again. He could not endure this much longer.

A drip tickled at the edge of his hearing. Probably just icicles warming up and dripping into puddles on the stone below them. An attempt at a cleansing breath hammered his heart against his ribs, a panic flowing into him as the gore touched his tongue. Hallucinations, nothing more. Leather creaked amongst the drips, goosebumps washing over his body even as the fires scorched his veins.

Nausea rose in his gut, forcing his throat to close and more of the scents to flow into his mouth. He opened it in hopes of relaxing his tongue, only succeeding in pulling more of the awful scents and tastes into him. He coughed, bile splashing onto the back of his tongue and he breathed deeply.

He could never escape them. The demons loved to toy with him, a plaything they fed off of every moment of his life. He could not escape them even in sleep, only drawn closer to their plane in nightmares through the Fade. They pulled and clawed and scratched at him even in prayers, though the Chant managed to strengthen him against them on occasion.

“Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Knight-Commander Meredith startled him. He opened his eyes to his former Commanding Officer as she moved up beside him. Her hood seemed somehow darker. A sharp gasp pulled his focus from her to the landscape surrounding them.

Kirkwall lay in ruins, smoke billowing out of Kinloch in the background. Bodies scattered the stones around him. No grey peeked through the gore of limbs without a body, of organ chunks like so much ground meat splattered across the blood-soaked stone. Cullen felt his stomach lurch, the scent of gore filling his lungs and mouth.

Other Templars tossed the bodies of citizens and mages alike into a pile, the mages disfigured through transformation into abominations. He felt tears prick his eyes, snot filling his nose as his eyes drifted over the bodies of those he had made friends with, of the children he had tried to tutor or ease into life in the Circle.

“You did well to squash this rebellion, Knight-Captain.” Meredith lifted her chin with pride, a barely perceptible lift to one corner of her lips.

A smile Cullen missed, tears blurring his vision. His hands drew into fists, leather squishing. He lifted his hand, gloves coated with blood. “I-…”

Meredith dropped a bloodied hand on his shoulder. “You might just get a commendation from this, Knight-Captain. All these **mages** that you have saved the world from.”

His lips quivered. He never wanted this. He had only ever joined the Order to serve and protect as those in Honnleath. To be there for his sister.

“This is exactly what you needed, wasn’t it, son?” Greagoir stepped up on his other side, his eyes crinkled over a tight smile.

“Knight-Commander, I-“ Cullen felt his stomach lurch again, head shaking slightly.

Greagoir tilted his head. “I understand what you’ve gone through, son, but this? I wanted you to ‘level out’, not…” He returned his gaze to the bodies.

Kinloch bookshelves appeared around him as the tears fell. “Knight-Commander, you have to understand, I’ve changed.”

Greagoir shook his head gravely. He gestured to the bodies piling up before fixing his eyes on Cullen. Disdain, disgust and pride. “I’d say you’ve changed, boy.”

Cullen reached out a shaky hand for the pile. His body grew cold, the heat within him dying abruptly, giving way to ice in his veins. He had killed them all? In Kinloch, in Kirkwall?

“No…” A breathy plea escaped him.

“She was the first.” Greagoir took Cullen’s hand and pointed to the body of a young elven mage.

Cullen’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He staggered forward, his Templar armor jangling loudly throughout the hall, and fell to his knees. “Siliandra…?”

Her beautiful features did not respond, her eyes dark, staring ahead, frozen in death. He rubbed the hair from her face, smearing it back with his blood-soaked gloves. Her skin barely pulled at his movements.

He shook his head. He would never do this. Everything he hated about the Order, about the duties they demanded of their soldiers, lie before him. Meredith congratulating him, Greagoir admonishing him but still proud of him. He rid the world of danger.

But at what cost?

He let the tears flow, grasping for the lithe figure of a girl he had fallen in love with. A forbidden romance he had believed possible for the demons to prey upon. The one shining beacon of regret in his horrible life. He enveloped her small body in his, praying to Andraste, to the Maker, for some sort of absolution for either of them.

Flecks of something attached themselves to the areas of his face he left exposed. They stung, wresting him from his grief. He lifted his head, only to find himself in some gnarled landscape, rock formations spiraling upward in unnatural structures. Startled, he stood abruptly and attempted to wipe the tears from his eyes. His boots splashed in ankle deep liquid, drawing his focus downward.

Blood. He shook his head again, heart pounding, breath quickening. He swallowed the bile and retreated backward. No dry land to be found. His eyes scanned quickly, hoping for some explanation or refuge. The sky swirled with reddish energies, a strange island floating in the distant sky.

A fleck flew toward his eyes and he flinched. Ash. He had thought it snow. The water blood. The rock formations? Petrified ash. Ash made of burning flesh and bone.

He recognized it. Corrupted mages and some Templars were cremated to prevent further use of their body after death. The ash held a distinct melody.

Footsteps approached on stone, not through the bloody landscape that surrounded him. His jaw clenched; he could no longer trust his senses. He had heard stories of a landscape similar to this when the Inquisitor returned from Adamant. A horror-filled Fadescape. He had to defend, had to take action. He gripped the pommel of his blade. The footsteps moved closer. His hand slipped down to the grip, leather squishing with the intensity.

“Commande-“

Her Dalish accent halted in her throat as his blade grazed the side of her neck. Beautiful brown eyes speckled with flecks of glowing green widened, searching his, fear and worry crinkling her brow.

His nose tingled, a gust of wind pushing her vibrant red hair over her shoulders onto the blade, swirling the scorched bone ash around her. Orange curls danced over the steel, caught in the fuller as the buffet died down. Her countenance blurred through the tears that he held in his eyes. They would not have his dignity.

“Cullen.” Her voice came soft, a tone he rarely heard in his nightmares.

He shook his head. “Don’t do this to me, Demon. Don’t make me question-“

Liandra smiled to him, a complicated sort of curve, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Cullen, my dear Commander. You live with so much pain and fear.”

He growled. “Patronizing me instead?” He raised his free hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. No blood smeared his face, the gloves still red. “I have lived with so much more than that, you filthy creature.”

She seemed almost startled at his outburst. His sword arm tensed. She leaned away from his blade, but he kept it close to her throat.

Everything he had gone through, he could handle another nightmare, another feverish dream that forced him to remember. All those he had killed, all those he had failed to save, all the atrocities he had committed. In service to the Chantry, to the false idol that scammed so many young men and women into thinking they performed for the good of Thedas, when all their work amounted to oppression and destruction.

The tingle entered his nose again, forcing a sniff. Tears formed a trail around the contour of his cheeks, mixing into the stubble that lined his chin, his scar stinging as the salty liquid traced the line of his old wound. He would never be free of it, of them. The Chantry, even destroyed, held so much sway over the world. The Templars would return and he would have no option but to rejoin. They would make it so.

And they would force him to commit more atrocities. The would mold him into Meredith. Their first act?

End the Inquisitor.

“Cullen.”

He thrust his blade forward, sniffling against his runny nose. “No!” He swallowed. Possessed by demons, wielder of the Anchor, enemy of the Chantry? What other choice would he have? “You know nothing of my pain, creature.” He drew the blade back. He had to end this.

“ _Shadows fall_

_And hope has fled._

_Steel your heart_

_The dawn will come_.”

He hesitated. Tears slipped down her cheeks, her voice unsteady, brow knit with worry. But she sang.

They must’ve realized it by now. The demons had never used Andraste’s hymns in his nightmares before, refusing the stain themselves with the faith of mortals. But he had been such a prize to them.

“ _The night is long_

 _And the path is dark_.”

“Stop.” The word rumbled through his throat. She froze, tears filling her eyes. His resolve shook. “Why do you do this, demon? Why me?”

Brown eyes blinked the tears out of her eyes. “Cullen, please, you are having another episode. I am here, _ma sa’lath_.”

His blade clattered in the hilt by his ear. “ _Ma… sa’lath_ …?” The ash that drifted by shifted in color, from black to white.

She nodded slowly. “ _Ar lath ma._ _Emma na falon. Mala suledin nadas._ ” The horrific bone structures reverted to the ice, mountains, and stone of Skyhold.

They only spoke in his native tongue before. Never had the demons used hers. “Liandra?”

Her eyes widened, but the green did not flash. A tentative smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “ _Ne’emma lath_.”

Steel clattered against stone beside him, the blood gone, his arm dropping from the attack. “You… I am-“

She nodded and closed the distance between them. Her hands found his cheeks, despite his flinching, her thumbs rubbing the moisture from them, tears staining her own. “Cullen. Cullen, you’re all right. You’re in Skyhold. You’re with me in Skyhold.”

His eyes closed, fatigue sapping his strength. Her fingers brushed against his skin, real and solid and cooling. The demons burned him, clawed at his mind and spirit. He curled a hand around her thin wrist, the tingle in his nose stronger.

“I almost killed you.” His voice drifted out in a breath, a mist of apologies and terror.

Liandra shook her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It is forgivable, my love. I knew this about you-“

His brow furrowed, his armor rattling with the shivers. Her touch froze at the fingertips, her words lost in the chaos of his thoughts. “You knew this about me…?”

Hazel eyes darted over his face, brow furrowing with confusion. “Commander?”

He thrust her hands away. Rage took him. “You think you have any idea as to what I go through?” He shook his head, took a step back.

“Cullen!”

The sword, he needed his blade. The horrors, the pain, everything he suffered through in his life. It galled him. He retrieved the sword from the ground, hesitated before slipping it into his sheath.

“Cullen, I didn’t mean I know-“

It found her throat again. Her thin, delicate, pale neck, those orange curls speckled with snowflakes dancing on the blade again. “You could turn at any moment, **mage**.”

Her ears lowered, sagged even, her eyes flashing green for a moment. He would have to end her if the demons ever took her. Her body, disfigured from the transformation, flashed before him. He shook his head, the steel shaking at her neck.

“You think you know what I’ve been through. You know the pain I have, you say. I will be the one to kill you, as I have killed-“ His voice caught in his throat, tears filling his eyes once more. The faces flashed behind his eyelids, the piercing pain behind his ears of the demons’ tendrils. She kept her eyes on him. “How can you even _begin_ to comprehend…?”

The sun danced in the tears that filled her eyes. But she dare not blink. The green glow died, leaving him with the beautiful flecks of gold, broken occasionally by the vibrant orange hair. Soft and beautiful, smelling of herbs and flowers. Could he do it? Could he allow anyone else, even Rylen, to do it?

No. If the worst should happen, her fate lay in his hands. He would allow no one else to take her life.

He loved her too much to stain anyone else with her blood.

“Liandra.” He barely croaked her name out before he dropped to his knees.

Her arms found his neck, pulling him into a warm embrace. The frost left his veins as she pressed her cheek into his hair. He felt her pull away at the touch of the product in his hair, mirth swirling in his gut for a brief moment. Brown, clean leather gloves found her dress, clutching the fabric tightly. Scents of herbs and flowers replaced the burnt flesh in his nose.


End file.
